


Kintsugi

by meaninglessblah



Series: Kintsugi [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternative Universe - BDSM, Alternative Universe - Dom/Sub Dynamics, Alternative Universe - FBI, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Tragedy, Angst with a Happy Ending, Barbara Gordon Deserves A Fucking Medal, Barbara Gordon is a Psychologist, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Drug Use, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Individual Chapters Tags in the Chapter Summary, Jason Todd is a Sub, Jason Todd is a Wreck, Jason and Steph Are Adoptive Siblings, M/M, Major Character Injury, Medical Procedures, Most of the Batfam is here, Permanent Injury, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers, Tim Drake is a Dual, Tim Drake is a FBI Consultant, Tim Drake is a Wreck, Tim Speaks French For No Discernible Reason, Undercover Missions, Whump, alternative universe - no capes, you're in for a bad time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-05-18 22:43:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 91,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19344169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meaninglessblah/pseuds/meaninglessblah
Summary: So I wrote this fic in a month flat, ages back. It's super duper indulgent and strays WAYYY out of canon bounds. No capes, Tim's an FBI Consultant and Jason's a trafficking victim. Throw sub/dom dynamics on top of that and it's generally fucked.Tim is an absolute human wreck who is Trying His Best, and Jason is as stubborn as always with an extra side of trauma. Because no matter what universe we're in, Jason Todd can't catch a break.Barbara Gordon is the most patient woman I've ever seen, and she deserves a goddamn medal for seeing Tim through this shit time in his life, no matter how shitty his attitude gets. Tim also speaks French for no particular reason other than I wanted to learn some French.HYPER hurt/comfort. Approach with caution.There will be nine regular chapter updates over nine weeks.





	1. Extricate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter tags:**
> 
> i. Drug use, verbal abuse, physical abuse, non-consensual scening, gun use  
> ii. Mentioned medical procedures  
> iii. Drug references, mentioned medical procedures, mentioned past abuse (graphic)  
> iv. Drug references  
> v. Medical procedures, medical trauma  
> vi. Medical procedures 
> 
> Please message me if I have missed any tags, so they can be added. 
> 
> All non-English text is underlined. You can read the English translation by hovering over or clicking the text.  
> Translation notes are at the end of the chapter.

As soon as Tim properly lays eyes on their first sub, he knows this one is _bad_. All the trafficking rings are, inherently, in one way or another, bad; but Tim actually has the presence of mind and the detachment to rank them. It's what makes him so good at his job – the ability to consciously decide which rings need more resources, and which might, just maybe, be able to be put on the backburner a little longer before he gets around to them. It's a balancing act, and Tim's not proud of it, but it's how they run things. It's the only reason the Department's figurative head is still above water.

He can usually tell by how they handle the subs if they're headed for a 2 or 3 on the hit list, or if he can afford to push them further down the line, let them work their way back up by process of elimination. Most of his top ten in play at the moment are violent traffickers. All of them enact some sort of violence to keep their subs in line – or even just to get them down – but some of them have crossed over enough that Tim gives them a special fast-pass up the FBI's to-raid list.

These shitfucks aren't violent, and that's what throws Tim first. The subs, from the brief glances Tim has gotten whilst 'touring' their facility, are maintained and don't have any visual signs of physical abuse. Tim's not stupid; it's not like he's a health inspector giving a rubber stamp green light or eviction notice to every trafficking ring on the west coast. Regardless of how _bad_ these traffickers are, they're on the list. Period.

And Tim knows that most abuse doesn't leave a neat visual flag. But he can tell by the grooming and the steady frequency of armed muscle that these subs are (backhandedly) cared for. These traffickers have been around the block a few times – not many times, but definitely a few – and Tim can see that merchandise quality is a selling factor. Going to town on a downed sub's hide every night because it's amusing or you're bored doesn't make for healthy, high quality profitable sales.

They're using a synth, Tim notices when they take him into a small back room to 'sample the goods'. He'd suspected, based on how pliant all the others were, even behind locked doors. It nudged the ring up another two notches on Tim's personal hit list just on principle. Synths were a sure-fire way of keeping a sub down and compliant, the most efficient way of minimising injury to them and yourself.

Based on how this one keens softly into the floor mat when Tim steps into the room, he can tell that there's something more at work here than natural bodily chemicals. It's not until he's nearly standing over the sub that he works out they're using Push.

It's not immediately obvious to Tim how he arrives at that diagnosis. There's certainly nothing _specific_ in the way the sub acts when he feels Tim's eyes rove over his neatly restrained, prone form. But if he had any doubts before, they're swiftly washed away when Tim's escort turns to their armed muscle and orders, “Pick that one up.”

Because even though Tim knows the command was for the six-foot-five Mack truck of a guy with the Eagle holstered to his thigh, he watches the sub stiffen with the words. Watches as he tries to pick himself up, as if the impossible order is meant for him. Tim watches his ankles catch in their polycarbonate zip ties, watches the fists pressed neatly into his spine press harder as he strains to pull up, and sees how the sub _tries_ to get himself upright under his own power. And he sees the absolutely crestfallen dejection when the Mack truck winds an arm around his bicep and hauls him up, as if he's failed in some simple task.

The sub stirs when they bring him closer, panic rising up through the calm bliss of the combination of synth and being down. His breaths curtail into short, sharp huffs of air, his shoulders stiffening with the proximity even as he tries to make himself smaller, more soft and pliant.

It's not until the escort claps Tim on the shoulder and declares, “Finest of the fine, my friend,” and the sub hums at the approval with his entire body that Tim's brain does the final math and realises they're using Push.

In terms of damage, if synth is an over-the-counter psychotropic-sedative pill, Push is the nastiest backyard crack cocaine you've ever seen. And most strains of synth aren't legal, let alone accessible without a prescription.

Tim can tell by the dazed, blissed crease in this sub's brow that they used Push to get him down. And he is down, shows every visual sign of it, from his narrowed, hunched shoulders to his quiet, non-disruptive breathing patterns. As if breathing too loudly is some sort of offence.

This sub is so far down that Tim doesn't even think he would know his own name if Tim tattooed it on his left arm. And whilst Tim knows its chemically possible for subs to enjoy being down, even on synth, he would be the first to raise his hand and guess that this sub is keeling, _hard_.

He has the bodily fatigue of someone who should have dropped four hours ago, and is staving off the inevitable not because drops are a bitch-and-a-half, but because _they don't want him to drop_. No sub can just postpone drop, like it's some sort of inconvenient baby shower or poorly scheduled appointment. But if you've got the training, sometimes you can edge it off, give yourself a spare few hours. Under their own bodily autonomy, most subs find themselves a few hours into drop before they notice they're even there.

This sub doesn't look like he has even the barest training, and if not bound up by the need to please, Tim's certain he'd be writhing in his own skin, seizing through whatever drop follows consistent uses of Push. And if the paperthin barrier of need for approval is all that's staving off a drop that hard, Tim knows that this is _bad_.

So Tim asks the most prominent question on his mind: “How long's he been down?”

The escort spares a brief glance at his wristwatch. It's a practical, if expensive, affair. “Forty-six hours.”

Tim nearly phones it in then. Entertains the brief, fleeting fantasy of burying a bullet between the eyes of this pimp and that thug, and hauling the sub the fuck out of dodge. The only thing that stops him is the fact that he's unarmed, and Tim's undercover assignment file had listed him as a knowledgeable but naive John.

So Tim reminds himself that he's a fucking professional, swallows down the acid lingering on the back of his tongue, and crooks what he knows is a vaguely impressed eyebrow.

“How long does it stay down without synth?” Tim asks, because it's a pointed question and he needs to establish a dynamic with this pimp early on. He also makes the conscious choice of pronoun, aware that it washes off the sub's back in a way that makes Tim wish it really didn't.

The escort gives him a sly smile, the corners just hinting at dislike. “Good eye. This particular one will stay down for twelve hours without synth. Our other merchandise can last up to fifteen hours. But, of course,” he adds, spreading his hands plaintively, “a little more malleability doesn't go unrewarded.”

“Malleability?” Tim repeats, before he can realise what a fucking stupid idea that was.

The escort smiles like he'd expected the answer, and he doesn't even need to look at the Mack truck for the guy to wrap a meaty hand around the back of the sub's neck and shove him to his knees. The sub folds instantly, like he was made to do nothing but, and Tim sees him skim negligibly close to the surface of his drop.

But the armed thug doesn't stop there, popping open his holster with a methodical thumb and taking his firearm in hand. Tim tries not to bite the inside of his cheek, not wanting to tip the escort off, but it's a narrow call.

The sub's mouth is slack and open before the gun's even fully cleared the holster. The thug slides one hand through the sub's freshly washed hair, indifferent as his eyes flicker shut with blissful pleasure, and slides the barrel into the cavern of his waiting mouth.

He doesn't choke, and Tim considers that worse. The cold metal scrapes dimly across the edge of his teeth, and Tim watches with strangled breath as the Mack truck levers a heavy thumb against the hammer, cocking it.

Tim doesn't smile, even though he feels the searing heat of the escort's grin beside him. Instead, he lets his panic bleed to a neutral expression and asks with just the barest hint of curiosity, “Would he let you shoot him?”

The escort frowns at him like the answer's obvious, and Tim supposes it really is. He's not emotionally prepared when the escort slips down to sit on his heels and says clearly, aloofly, to the sub, “Do you want me to have him shoot you?”

The sub doesn't peel his eyelids back, but the intensity of the escort's gaze on him is visible in the tautness of his back and shoulders. He makes a muffled noise around the gun that Tim can only interpret as keen affirmation.

The escort's smile dials up a few degrees. “You know it would make me happy to see your brains painting the floor,” he croons, and Tim feels the sub's full-body shiver, watches him curl himself a little further down the length of the gun, as if inviting the bullet. “And you like making me happy, don't you?”

The sub whimpers, the sound a reverberating agreement, and chokes in his effort to nod around the obstruction in his throat. The escort chuckles, low and thrumming, and Tim's nails bite into his palms.

“You'd be better off dead, wouldn't you?” he purrs, and the sub's eyes roll open at that, the first hints of confusion and betrayal tainting their blue depths. And because Tim can see exactly where the escort intends to go, he does what he always does when he finds himself in a situation that requires him to maintain face against inhuman odds; he disassociates.

Because he doesn't need to see the look of horrified dejection that paints the sub's features like a slap in the face. Doesn't need to see him scramble mentally for a foothold, for a way to construe this as anything other than _you're a fuck up._

And Tim knows he won't find that foothold, won't be able to ground himself when he's down that deep. Even if he were operating under natural bodily chemicals, Tim has no doubt that that would have made him tilt violently towards drop. The suggestion that he's anything less than exactly what his dom needs right now is nothing short of catastrophic when a sub's down that deep. With the added influence of Push, that sub's chances of walking out of this without spiralling immediately into a drop are thinner than a sheet of ice on the Hudson.

But against all odds and Tim's generous estimations, the sub perseveres, swallowing that punishment down with as close to a neutral expression that a man who'd been told his life's purpose was forfeit could muster. The gut-deep disgust and disappointment is abundantly clear though, and it tweaks Tim's d-type tendencies like a sobering addict.

“May I?” he interrupts, and the escort glances up at him over his shoulder, expression blank. He clearly hadn't expected to be interrupted, but he rolls back to his feet with a placating smile, and gestures accommodatingly.

“Be my guest,” he insists softly, and Tim notes that the sub's gaze doesn't part from the escort's until Tim steps into his personal space. The Mack truck holsters his gun, wiping it briefly on his trouser leg as he retreats into parade rest in Tim's peripheral.

“Eyes up,” Tim orders bluntly, and the sub's gaze is on him before he even finishes the second syllable. “I want you to focus only on me.”

He consciously words like it a command. He knows the sort of havoc an open-ended question can have on a downed sub's psyche, knows that the escort chose the backhanded commands on purpose to shatter the sub's wavering calm.

And maybe Tim's not inhuman enough to be that cruel, but he'd be lying if he said it was entirely for the sub's benefit.

Because Tim's not stupid. He's aware of his own dynamic needs, even as a dual. And seeing a sub pushed down this far has got every last one of his dom instincts clawing for purchase on his self-control.

So Tim does the maths, and figures that if the least he can offer this sub - even briefly - is a warm respite from this mental mindfuck of a scene, then mutually beneficial is the path he's going to take.

Up this close, the sub looks absolutely wrecked. Hesitancy lines every sliver of his features, every hard line of his body. And underscoring that malicious resignation is the ever-present, all-encompassing need to please. To be acknowledged and recognised and _approved_.

Tim cards his fingers over the sub's scalp and massages the crown of his head, partly because he knows it's a foolproof way to help a sub sink further down, and partly because it's invariably a good way to get _him_ down, as a dom. And if this sub could use anything right now, it's a gentle nudge away from his inevitable drop.

The sub nearly purrs, and Tim _feels_ the sigh that he eases from strangled lungs. His trust is tentative at best, and resigned at worse, but it's all Tim has to work with right now. And let it not be said that Tim didn't perform magnificently under pressure.

“I want you to lower your heart rate,” Tim instructs clearly and soberly, lets each word weigh on the sub's consciousness until they're the only thing that matters in his narrowed view of the world. “Take deep breaths. Relax for me.”

And as good as that control, that ability to provide for a sub strokes his ego, it's nothing compared to the swell of pride when the sub sinks down on his heels and breathes deep, steady and low. His eyes don't waver from Tim's, but they do become hooded in their tranquility. His breath whistles between barely parted lips until Tim is rewarded with the sight of his shoulders falling out of that strict line, and his chin tilting up the slightest inch.

Tim almost murmurs, “That's good.” but stops himself before the first syllable is past his lips. He watches the sub's brow pinch in uncertainty, his whole posture straining for acknowledgement that Tim can't give him. And if he didn't feel like peeling the skin off himself before at the thought that this sub would happily go to the grave just for the recognition Tim might offer him, he does now.

He swallows, hard, and summons the resolve to break this off now before he can do any more damage to the sub's whiplashed psyche. Tim's acutely aware of the escort's eyes on him, analysing the depth of his engagement. So he mentally checks out, schools his expression back to cold, almost bored, neutrality and steps away from the sub.

The rest of the evening is - thankfully - short. The escort wraps up their tour with cloying flair and Tim does his best not to let his mind wander to the expression of stunned abandonment on the sub's face when the door had clicked closed behind them.

The escort leads Tim back through the maze of the facility, figuratively signing him out at the reception as he waits for Tim to retrieve his surrendered mobile phone and personal effects. The clerk, a man in a neatly pressed dress shirt with an AK-203 strapped across his barrelled chest, informs Tim that he has a missed call and bids him a good evening.

Tim spends the short ride up the dirtway in the back of a canvas truck in resolute silence, and the further three mile hike up the empty stretch of tarmac equally disengaged in his surroundings.

It's only when he slumps into the seat of the non-descript hired Wrangler waiting for him in the abandoned carpark of the Berzane Nature Reserve that Tim lets his panic bleed into his expression. Lets his lungs strangle their way into a sharp, piercing rhythm against his sternum, and curls around the leaden feeling in his stomach.

The steering wheel is refreshingly cool against Tim's forehead as he breathes through and past the pain and turns the key in the ignition. He doesn't return the missed call. It's all he can do to focus on the road ahead of his headlights and drive back to his hotel in razor thin, wavering calm.

By the time Tim's head hits the pillow back in his hotel room, he's levelled out enough that he can force down a stale refrigerated sandwich and a bottle of water. He succumbs to sleep almost immediately, resolute in the knowledge that a fifteen page report is currently winging its way through the ethernet to land faithfully on the FBI Deputy Director's desk.

 

* * *

 

“You've got to give me time to get there,” Tim insists down the mouthpiece of his third work mobile, jamming the half-eaten protein bar into his coat pocket with his other hand.

“We can't medically recommend that we extend the coma by more than three days,” the physician at the other end of the line responds, a strained, detached quality to his tone. “With how many barbiturates are in his system, it's bordering on abuse. The risk of dependency-”

Tim cuts him off. “Yeah, yeah, I know the spiel.”

He grapples with the mobile, cinching it between his shoulder and ear as he pats himself down for his boarding pass. He locates it in the back pocket of his jeans, and hands the crumpled slip of paper over to the desk attendant.

“Look, I'm boarding the AA 467. You can track me online if you want. I spent thirty-six hours flying from Tirana to Tampa, and this was the earliest flight I could get. I'm due to arrive at-” Tim consults his mobile's display clock, does a quick calculation, “-eleven o'clock your time. I'll be walking through your doors at midday, okay?”

Tim can already picture the physician shaking his head. “We can't keep the patient-”

“I'm asking you for four more hours,” Tim growls, letting the hint of desperation colour his tone. “Four hours. Just keep the invalid invalid until I get there.”

“Look, Drake-”

“I'll buy you a coffee.” Tim's pleading at this point, mewling down the line as he shucks his shoes and shimmies out of his belt. He places both in the plastic tray provided and ignores the attending TSA agent's increasingly stern gestures to hang up his phone. Tim considers flashing his badge, and decides the chew-out he's going to get from the Deputy Director is not worth the fleeting convenience.

He steps out of line to let a mother with a surprisingly passive toddler edge through. He takes a moment to recognise the soft, placid features of a sub-child in scene, and watches the mother gratefully accept her handbag from the agent on the other side of the scanner.

The physician is arguing more vehemently now, but Tim's mind is dragging him back to that shitstain of a facility back in Albania. And between juggling a pounding headache, an unsatisfied caffeine addiction, the lingering panic attack that he'd succumbed to as the plane had begun its descent, and the shrinking patience he has left to deal with the stubborn physician nine-hundred miles away, Tim knows that something's got to give.

“If you wake him up before I get there, I will wrap Providence in so much red tape that you won't see daylight for three fucking weeks,” Tim snarls down the line, dodging the glares from a handful of middle-aged nuns shuffling through the scanners. He sandwiches himself into the corner between the next conveyer and the glass security wall and hunkers down, curling his shoulders around his ears. “I need you to do me a solid here, okay? I'm not explaining to you why I need that patient ready for me when I get there, but I'm going to ask you to extend me an olive branch here and meet me halfway.”

The TSA agent raps a crooked knuckle on the glass divider, nodding Tim back towards the scanner. He nearly flips the guy off, changing tacts at the last minute to hold up one stalling finger. The TSA agent shakes his head vehemently, and Tim mouths 'One minute' before stoically turning his back.

The line is silent, and Tim pulls back to check that he hasn't accidentally hung up on the physician.

“Doppio espresso macchiato,” the physician bites down the earpiece, and Tim flounders for a second before he realises it's a coffee order. “And a chilli chicken focaccia. Hold the mozzarella.”

Tim's heart stutters back into an acceptable rhythm, his shoulders unhitching themselves from his earlobes with his breathless chuckle. For the physician's benefit, he snorts, declaring, “Nah, I know a sweet Turkish place on the way. I'll get you some of the good shit.”

“That wasn't the de-” the physician says, upstarting, but Tim's already hung up and tossed his phone into the nearest plastic tray.

 

* * *

 

It's the third fastest wrap-up Tim's ever been involved in.

He wakes Friday morning to a smattering of classified emails, seventeen missed calls and two texts. He misreads his mobile's display clock originally, and then bolts out of bed when he realises it's six in the _afternoon._

The half-hour drive to Providence is interspersed only by a brief stop at Sylvan's in Bloomingdale to snag a cream cheese bagel. Tim's padding through the foyer and jogging up the stairs to the second floor ward by the time the sun begins to dip on the horizon.

It's as he's navigating the polished LVT hallway that he actually lets the last week's events catch up to him.

It's been three days since he walked out of the Hotel Liss into the moderate spring chill, flagged down a taxi and let the Department call in a few international favours. By Thursday, he was wading through the muggy Tampa heat and dealing with exactly seven irate Interpol divisional managers lodged firmly in the second stage of the Kubler Ross framework. The last had screamed down the line at him almost entirely in French, and in absolutely commendable fashion, Tim had spat a “!” into the mouthpiece and hung up.

The final headcount from the facility had been sixty-eight in custody, with a suspected seventeen more lost in pursuit. Thirty-two of those had been deemed hostages, and the next two days had been spent waiting out the logistical challenge of relocating them to their respective embassies. Only one had been transferred back to American soil, and rushed through the Providence Hospital ICU in the early hours of Thursday morning, drugged to the gills with sedatives.

His attempt at bribing his way into a private interview with the invalid goes poorly, to say the least. He wastes six dollars on a premium Turkish coffee only to find that his supposedly-sedated interviewee busted the lip of an attending physician exactly thirty-seven minutes before Tim's arrival, while he had been sitting on the tarmac at Reagan International.

They'd shot him up with four milligrams of lorazepam while Tim had been studiously running through the interview script in his head, and he'd arrived at the hospital only to be told that his patient was now under chemical restraint for the next eight hours.

So Tim had cut his losses and doubled back to his apartment to rush through a much-needed shower, return the missed calls of anyone below the rank of Assistant Special Agent, and vehemently ignore the growing list of unrequited emails from The Office of the Deputy Director. He'd spent three hours in his apartment plaza's gym trying to stave off severe jet lag, and then called Cass over for another two hours to help him down. She'd gotten him levelled out, made sure he'd eaten, and then he'd crawled into bed sometime around eleven-thirty, dead to the world.

Because Tim believes in dodging karma's spiteful advances at every chance, he'd called the hospital before leaving his apartment in Arlington, to enquire as to the consciousness of one combative patient currently interned at Providence.

He is still mildly relieved to find him sitting up in bed, cognizant, if a bit dazed. Doesn't mean he doesn't coil like a steel spring when Tim strolls into the room.

Tim sets some boundaries early on. He keeps his hands in full view of the bedridden patient, careful not to reach for anything in his pockets and to verbally announce his intentions before moving. He drags a plastic chair a yard from the end of the bed and angles it so that most of him is visible from the head. Then he flips open his small notebook and settles in.

“My name is Tim Drake,” he introduces clearly and concisely, ensuring that the patient is processing his words before he continues. “I'm a senior consultant for the Bureau of Investigation. The FBI,” he clarifies when the patient doesn't react.

“I know what the FBI is,” the man croaks, and looks immensely uncomfortable at the sensation of his nasogastric tube shifting in his esophagus. He swallows gently and slowly, as if testing the agitation.

Tim takes a few slow breaths and continues, gentler this time. “You're in Providence Hospital, in Virginia. It's Friday, 17th May. You were flown in on Wednesday night. You've been sedated since Tuesday.”

“I punched someone,” he murmurs, and Tim takes that in stride.

“You hit the attending physician. You weren't entirely cognizant, so we're chalking it up to a knee-jerk reaction to waking up somewhere foreign. No one's pressing any charges. He was a lying bastard anyway,” Tim adds with the barest crook of a smile. It fades when the man stares at him blankly.

Tim clears his throat and shifts absently in his uncomfortable seat, offering a more genuine smile this time.

“Can we get you any water? Some tea?”

“Why are you here?” the man asks, his tone betraying his fatigue. There's a fair serving of distrust there too.

“First things first,” Tim backtracks. “Can you tell me your name?”

“Jason,” the man responds, and jolts very slightly when he realises Tim is waiting on his surname. “Haywood.”

“Jason Haywood,” Tim repeats, and when the man doesn't correct him, he forges onwards. “Can you tell me your birth date?”

“June 21st, 1992,” Jason answers, and Tim's smile widens conspiratorially.

“Born on the summer solstice; a Cancer then?” His blank, uncompromising expression has Tim rescinding his smile with a hesitant cough. He schools his tone, trying for disciplined, hoping it will elicit a more conducive response.  “I need to ask you some questions about your time in Albania.”

He doesn't miss when Jason's breath hitches up a notch, the whistle sharp and piercing in the quiet room. Tim lets his expression fall into sincere but neutral professionalism.

“Can you tell me how you came to be in that facility?”

“Am I under arrest?”

Tim rolls his jaw, and meets Jason's blunt, hostile stare. “You're under observation.”

“By the hospital or the FBI?”

“Both.”

Jason chews through that, lost to his thoughts for a moment before he seems to arrive at some resolution. He coils tighter, some defensive instinct in him kicking into overdrive. “I was driven there in the back of a reefer truck from Prizren.”

Tim doesn't let himself linger on the image that begins to form in the forefront of his mind. He's making progress, and if Jason thinks he can shake Tim off his case with a game of chicken, he's sorely mistaken. “How do you know it was Prizren?”

“,” Jason murmurs, and Tim's mind skips a track trying to comprehend that sentence before he realises its not English. Not even in the vicinity of any language he knows. “I learnt some Albanian,” Jason explains with a shrug. “The truck driver talked a lot.”

“How did you arrive in Prizren?”

“Have you got a map?”

“Humour me,” Tim challenges evenly, and Jason rolls his tongue along the front of his teeth, as if trying to discern how far he wants to dive into this inquisition. “Explain to me how you went from being an American citizen to winding up in a facility in Albania.”

“I started in Port Newark,” Jason answers, his tone curt and sharp, void of sentiment. Tim suspects it's intentional. “Caught a ride on a container ship bound for Gioia Tauro. Skipped over the Adriatic into Montenegro, and then north through Serbia. I floated between Novi Sad, Zrenjanin and Subotica for six months.”

“That's a decent amount of time in Serbia,” Tim purrs conversationally. “You speak any Serbian too, or just Albanian?”

“,” Jason responds in a low tone, and _that_ has Tim lips curling in a smile. The man draws in a sharp breath, before continuing as if he'd never been interrupted. “Moved down to Sremska Mitrovica for half a year. Wandered over to Kosovo, and then caught a lift down to Albania.”

“A lift,” Tim repeats skeptically, and Jason fixes him with a glare that indicates he _will_ put up a fight if Tim tries to narrow in on that venture too quickly. It's not often, but sometimes Tim can be tactful. “Okay. Any particular reason you chose Serbia?”

“I like mountains,” Jason interjects tonelessly, and Tim doesn't need a badge to know that's the most barefaced lie he's ever heard. Jason isn't the slightest bit phased by the deflect, seems pretty intent on sticking to it, but Tim persists anyway.

“Really?” When Jason's gaze narrows slightly, Tim slumps back in his seat,  tapping his pen gently on the blank page of his notebook. His tone is equally as arctic when he muses aloud, “Novi Sad is a pretty big tourist hub, I'll give you that. Plenty of shipwork in and out; plenty of vessels running up the Danube. I hear Subotica's architecture is gorgeous. Even Zrenjanin has some historical appeal. And Sremska Mitrovica!” Tim pauses for dramatic, ecstatic emphasis, and watches Jason's blue eyes chill a few degrees. “Did you know _ten_ Roman emperors were born in Sremska Mitrovica? Such rich, rich history.”

Jason has the decency to look acquiescent, but Tim wants to establish exactly where they stand.

“If you're going to bullshit me, at least invest more than the twenty seconds it took you to glance at a Serbian travel pamphlet. Next time someone asks you that question, try using the historical tourist excuse. Drop a few names here and there: Claudius, Quintillus, Aurelian. You'll be amazed how far it gets you.”

The terse seconds tick by as Tim settles more comfortably in his chair, confident that he's made his point. Jason swallows again, winces, and asks softly, “What do you want from me?”

“I want to know what you were doing in the most corrupt cities in Serbia, along a known narcotics trade route, on a sixteen month headway with barely any understanding of the language and no indication of travel foresight.”

“You going to sanction me?” Jason counters coolly, and continues before Tim can answer. “I studied the RICO Act, agent. I know exactly what you're trying to do.”

“Not an agent,” Tim rebuffs calmly. “But thanks for the vote of confidence. I don't need to sanction you, and I'm not looking to threaten you. Because despite all your bluster, we both know exactly what was happening in that facility, and I'm not about to sanction the hostage of Albanian traffickers.”

Jason's lip curls back, fury flashing through his gaze and pooling behind the blue lenses. “You want to talk about what I remember about Albania?”

“I do,” Tim answers evenly, honestly. It's the second most regretful thing he does that day.

“I remember being sold in Prizren,” Jason says harshly. “I remember being thrown half-conscious in the back of a reefer and being carted halfway across Albania, trying not to freeze to death in a sub-fifty degree insulated box. I remember the absolute _shit_ being beaten out of me when I got to that facility in Berzane.”

Tim's brain-to-mouth filter must be faulty, because he says, “They weren't beating subs in that facility.” He watches barely constrained hatred wash over Jason's entire form, and instantly regrets admitting that he knows the man's dynamic, throwing it in his face like that. He'll regret it til the day he dies, because from that second onward, Jason makes it his absolute mission to beat Tim's empathy reflex into a cowering corner.

“They didn't know I was a sub,” he projects, and Tim's stomach sinks swiftly. “They were just told to take care of my fuck-up, rough me up, bend a few bones; you know, the usual. And then, because biology is a bitch, I went down. Didn't even clock it. One minute I was telling some Albanian fuck to crawl back into his mother, and then the next I was under. Sunk like a fucking stone. And from there - well. It was too easy.”

Tim's stomach is in freefall, vertigo rushing up to shred through his lungs. His fingers are tingling, cold and distant, and he can't tear his eyes away from that hateful, haunted gaze. Doesn't even know what expression he's projecting right now, but Jason neither acknowledges it nor cares.

“I remember,” Jason enunciates, because he knows that Tim is trapped now, fused to that seat and wrapped up in the most horrific hours of this man's life. _Days_ , Tim's mind corrects, and he tastes bile. “When they decided they could keep me under with Push. And if you think I put up even the slightest bit of resistance, you're kidding yourself. I practically injected it myself. I was so far gone, I might have even _suggested_ it; who's to know? And I'll admit, the next few months or so get pretty hazy for me. I alternated between being so far down I couldn't even stand on my own, and dropping so hard they had to restrain me to stop me peeling the skin off my arms. It was a real blast. Like being on a hijacked carousel, only it never stops spinning and you can't ever get off. And the horse underneath you keeps reminding you that you really _do_ want this, you've always wanted it, and why won't you just see that you were _made_ for this?”

Tim's spiralling. He's been here enough times to know he's ricocheting up the PDS scale with dizzying velocity. Everything below his neck feels numb, jacked up until he's wound tighter than a compression spring. He's barely breathing, unable to even count his breaths past the thundering pulse in his ears.

Jason doesn't stop. Doesn't even hesitate. He's as trapped in this nightmare as Tim is, and unlike Tim, he's long since given up on the fantasy that he can pump the breaks on this shitshow of an interview. His tone is raw and grating when it slides into Tim's ears.

“When you're down that far, you're not even able to think for yourself. All that matters is what the dom wants, what the dom needs. And its hopeful, you know? It feels like if you can just do this one last thing, drag yourself up just over this last ridge, then maybe you'll reach the other side. Maybe you'll be as good as you need to be. Maybe, just maybe, you'll be able to drop. So you pinpoint. You hunker down and you focus on doing whatever it is the dom asks you to. Eyes up, eyes down, shut up, close your mouth, lie down, answer me, answer him. You try, you fucking _try_ to keep up, but they just keep coming. Sit down, pick that up, smile wider, no - _wider_ , focus on me, lower your heart rate, take deep breaths, _relax for me_.”

It's the final nail in Tim's mental coffin. A horrible, jarring caricature of the exact words he said to Jason back in that godforsaken facility. The selfish, pathetic, half-hearted attempt at offering him the barest respite from his own personal hell. Jason throws them back in his face with blunt inflection, and Tim snuffs the fleeting hope he'd had that maybe Jason didn't actually remember him. Didn't remember being trotted out for Tim's sampling pleasure. Didn't remember Tim taking him apart with a few simple commands, a few soft-spoken words. Didn't remember the purr of his voice or the half-hidden smile or the rush of _control_ as Tim had stood over him and stripped him of his volition. And Tim can see it clear in the set of his jaw, the lines of his face as the memory plays back against the inside of Tim's skull, loops like a fucking record and jerks him back to the memory of having the sub's hair running through his fingers, his touch soft and unassuming.

“Excuse me,” Tim forces out, forces himself to get his weak legs under him as he makes a beeline for the door, notebook forgotten on the seat behind him.

 

* * *

 

He texts his consulting psychologist to meet him in the bathroom, partly because it's almost her lunch break and she's in the medical district, and partly because he knows she'll come regardless. Then Tim sticks his head into the first toilet bowl in the row and upheaves his last four meals.

He's managed to tuck himself into the space between the toilet and the wall, his skull pressed back against the blissfully chilled tile, when Barbara rounds the corner.

She passes a mortified expression in his direction, but hands him the caramel decaffeinated latte she has tucked under her wrist. Tim purrs a thanks, and silently reminds himself to buy Barbara a decent birthday present for her next anniversary.

Tim takes the opportunity to level out between sips of sugary sweet not-coffee, and Barbara, stellar human being that she is, let's him. After a few minutes of hard, tense silence, she opens her mouth to say something, and Tim waves her question off with the barest frown.

She doesn't like his dismissal, but she changes tacts nonetheless. “You're on a case?”

Tim hums around another mouthful of what is essentially sweetened milk.

“Are you flying out again anytime soon?”

“No, I'm not,” Tim replies, and knows that that is a confirmation of his activities in Barbara's books. She knows he's on a case, knows he's building evidence for proceedings. Knows he'll be neck-deep in legal burrows for the better half of the next month. Knows he'll start neglecting his dynamic and his mental health in general, and knows that she'll need to schedule 'spontaneous' visits on a semi-regular basis to keep tabs on him, keep him on track.

“Does Push have a high dependency liability?” Tim interjects suddenly, and Barbara starts, blinking.

“Are you on Push?” she asks skeptically, and takes Tim's half-irritated glare in stride. Then she settles back into Barbara, consulting psychologist, and says, “That really depends on your dosage and strain.” She pauses for a moment and adds, “Are we talking about a dual or sub here?”

“Sub,” Tim concedes easily, because Barbara's better at her job when she has the most facts.

“How long's the usage?”

“It could be up to-”

She misreads his hesitation and cuts him off, “If you want an accurate diagnosis, I need an accurate foundation. How long have they been using?”

Tim chews his bottom lip and resists the urge to upend his coffee into his mouth just to avoid answering her. “What counts as long term usage?”

Barbara crooks an eyebrow, and Tim's distinctly reminded that yeah, she's a psychologist, and a damn fine one, and she's not just analysing his theoretical patient. “There's a broad answer to that. Potentially infinite. But let's cap short term at four weeks and long term as anything over twelve.”

“Then yeah, long term,” Tim answers firmly, pointing in her direction as if in affirmation, and if that concerns her, she doesn't let it show.

Barbara crosses her arms over her blazer and leans back against the cubicle door, contemplative. “Assuming they're approximately your stature,” she hedges, and Tim nods impatiently, “then their dependency liability is going to be fairly low, if the pharmacokinetics are within expected parameters. You can expect a turnaround recovery in thirty days, and probably a complete lapse in dependency around ninety.”

Tim digests this silently, rocking to himself only very slightly. His stomach churns absently, but it's nowhere near as vitriolic as earlier. “And what are the come-down symptoms?”

“Irritability, loss or gain of appetite, dizziness, drowsiness, depression, disinhibition,” she rattles off, and shrugs. “On your higher end, you've got purposeless movements, mania, possibly aural and visual hallucinations. Nerve spasms, very possibly but highly unlikely is seizures.” Tim must wince, because her tone softens. “With proper monitoring and diagnosis, and _treatment_ , most of these symptoms should be manageable. There's minimal risk in a Push dependency returning, and the chance of a relapse is negligible.”

Tim hums contemplatively, his gaze fixed on the tile.

“So this hypothetical patient,” Barbara prods slowly, her tone suggesting that she knows he's anything but, “am I going to get to diagnose them in person, or am I only going to get half of a file note?”

Tims barks a laugh. “You don't need an in-person diagnosis; that's why you're my consult. And I don't need my only witness being handled from department to department while I try to wring together a case.”

Barbara lets the silence linger, rolls her bottom lip between her teeth. Tim balances the coffee cup between the tips of his fingers, the motion absent-minded and second nature by now. His mind's elsewhere, churning through half-memorised reports and pharmacological calculations as he plots a gradual course forward.

“Can you prescribe me some benzodiazepine?”

“I'm assuming we're talking about your case,” Barbara says sternly. “And no, I'm not practicing psychiatry anymore.”

“You have a dual degree in psychology and toxicology,” Tim points out, his tone taking on a hint of exasperation. “If you can't find it you can make it.”

“Not the point.”

“I need you to-”

“When did you last go down?”

Tim blinks. “Excuse me?”

Barbara fixes him with the same pointed stare their father has mastered, and enunciates plainly, “When did you last go down?”

If it was anyone else, Tim would have flipped them the bird and told them where they could shove it. But this was Barbara, his adoptive sister and most trusted confidant, and Tim was currently shaking off the dregs of a low-range panic attack in a hospital bathroom that _he_ had called _her_ into. He doesn't back down from her stare. “Yesterday,” he responds, and pretends to ignore her intake of breath.

“Cass?” she guesses, and he frowns, nodding.

“Did she say someth-?”

Barbara shakes her head. “Steph's out of the country, and I know you certainly didn't call _my_ office, so she's default by elimination.”

Tim grumbles something about solid logic and sets the rim of the coffee lid on his lower lip, inhaling the heat as he thinks. “She put me down, not- not up.” He feels like he needs to clarify that much.

“I don't need a Master of Clinical Psychology to work that out, Tim,” Barbara admits softly, and sighs. “You need to re-evaluate this case. You're _barely_ functional, and you can't operate under this second wind for as long as you think you can.”

“I'll operate under it for as long as I need to,” Tim returns evenly, and there's anger in her green gaze this time, hinting at frustration.

“If you're this unstable a _day_ after a scene, then you need an intervention. If you need to get down, then call my office; I can write you a referral for one of my colleagues. They're all vetted, all qualified psychs. They'll set you right.”

Tim is already shaking his head. “I'm not going to a quack. Any quack,” he clarifies firmly as Barbara opens her mouth. “And I don't need to get down. I- It's not going down that's the problem.”

She huffs, and her nails bite into her biceps where they hug her sides. “I'll call Dick then. He can stop by tomorrow night; he's always been good at service scenes. We've both scened with him before.”

“No,” Tim says immediately, because as good as his older brother is at facilitating sub service scenes, Tim doesn't want the follow up. While Dick is usually discreet, he pushes back when he knows someone's off-kilter. And Tim has practically capsized. “I'm sorting it, okay, Babs? Just leave me to do this. And I will sort it, I promise.”

“Make sure that you do,” Barbara says bluntly, her stare fixing him in place, pinning him to the tile.

“Promise,” he repeats, and lowers the nearly-empty coffee cup to the floor. He sighs, once, and tilts his head back to stare down his nose at her. “Nice deflect, by the way,” he quips, and watches her jaw set. “But I'm still going to need that benzodiazepine.”

“Do I get to meet your patient?” she counters, and Tim growls low in his throat.

“No, you don't. We've been over this.”

“Then I'm not prescribing hypothetical drugs to a hypothetical patient.”

“They're not hypothetical,” he chirps, gesturing to himself. “I'm right here. Write me the prescription.”

“You don't need benzodiazepine,” Barbara shuts him down coldly. “You need a service sub and a work-mandated vacation.”

“Wow,” Tim says, blinking once. He's beginning to feel more like himself, the latte burning away the remainder of his mania. “That's the sort of statement that gets psychiatrists' licences yanked.”

Barbara rolls her eyes. “Luckily, I'm not practicing. So once again, I'm not writing you a prescription.”

“Psilocybin it is then,” Tim summises, and rolls up onto his feet, brushing off his trousers.

Barbara looks beyond exasperated. “You're not giving a Push-starved sub _shrooms_ , Tim.”

He feigns hurt, cocking his head in a mockery of offence that he knows taps into every one of her buttons and mashes them down. “It's the only option I've got left, Doc,” he simpers, brushing past her to shove his hands under the cold flow of a faucet. “I'm getting desperate here.”

“You're an asshole, Tim.”

He yanks a paper towel out of the dispenser, hitching his shoulders up to hide his crooked smile as he dabs his palms dry. “They're going to cut off my supply. Without my benzodi-”

“No benzodiazepine,” Barbara snaps, but Tim can tell he's made his point. She hisses under her breath. “But I can get you an antidepressant.”

Tim's halfway to congratulating himself with a pat on the back when her words register. He half-turns to fix her with a disappointed glare. “An antidepressant? Why not just have us all sit in a circle and talk about our feelings?”

“Coming from a nocebo effector, that would be a valid response,” Barbara diagnoses loftily, and peels herself off the cubicle wall. “But this prescription isn't for you, so I don't really care whether or not you think you got a placebo antidepressant last time.” She straightens, drawing herself to her full height, and casually rattles off, “I can give you paroxetine for the panic disorder, or sertraline for the panic disorder and the PTSD. Do you have PTSD?”

Tim has the decency to look cowed. “Probably.”

“Sertraline it is then,” Barbara says decisively, her tone cold, and exits the bathroom. “I'll courier you the prescription.”

Tim hurries after her, catching her by the arm in the doorway. “Babs, look, I'm sorry-”

She detaches her arm gently. “Don't apologise to me, Tim. Sort yourself out. Or give me your patient so I can _treat_ them like a _professional_.” She heads off down the hallway, spreading her arms wide as she turns back to face him. “Or maybe do both; see where it leads.”

“Thanks, Babs,” Tim mutters to himself, and heads back to the room.

 

* * *

 

When he gets back to the room, Jason is in drop.

He's not surprised, honestly. Between the barbiturates and the lorazepam, his body hasn't had a decent go at a drop since before they extracted him from that warehouse in Albania. And Lord knows its been trying its darndest to get one good, hard swing at him.

It was why they'd sedated him onsite, kept him under for the flight from Tirana and even during the stopover in Vienna. Because drops are generally proportional to how in-depth a scene gets, and it doesn't take a genius to know that this one ran deep.

Jason's currently perched at the very top of the bed, scanning the room as if he's analysing exactly how small he can fold himself to fit into the gaps between the bed and the wall and the high-backed chair beside it. Maybe even considering if he can crawl behind the skirting lying flush against the linoleum.

He's shaking like a leaf in a hurricane, a pool of sweat beginning to stain the front of his hospital gown over his juddering chest. He's gagging softly at the nasogastric tubing in his throat, his clawed hands curled around the protruding end of the tube as if he's considering whether or not to rip it out of his nostril.

Tim's got enough of a working knowledge to know what to do with a sub in drop, so he raises his hands to shoulder height in front of him and makes his presence known. Jason's eyes flick to him immediately, blown wide and petrified as they find him and hold him there.

“Jason,” Tim says slowly, aiming for calm and somehow meeting the mark. “Hey, Jason. I'm going to need you to sit down.”

Jason's got his legs curled under him, tilting towards the side of the bed as if he will launch himself off if Tim takes another step closer. Tim plants himself where he is at the end of the bed and draws in a deep breath.

“Can you sit down for me, please?” Tim asks again.

“I'm, I'm dropping,” Jason realises in a dull croak.

“Yeah, yeah you are,” Tim concurs, nodding slightly. He doesn't lower his arms. “It's alright, we can handle it, right? You and me, we're going to walk you through this.”

Jason's throat works in a panic. “Don't- don't-”

“I'm not coming any closer,” Tim promises, let's his expression reflect his conviction. “I'm staying right here, right where you can see me.”

“Okay,” Jason breathes, and then repeats again, “Okay.”

Tim really wants him to let go of that tubing, so he focuses on that and prompts, “Can you sit down? Or move back a little on the bed? We don't want you to fall off.”

Jason nods slowly, as if he's processing this, and rocks back a little on his heels, shifting his weight. Tim breathes a little deeper.

“That's good, that's really good. Okay. Going to need you to let go of that tube too.” Jason glances down at his hands, and seems surprised to find them fisted on the rubber. “It's running all the way through to your stomach,” Tim explains gently. “So pulling it out is going to be really uncomfortable.”

As if to test whether Tim's telling the truth, Jason gives it a conspiratorial tug, and bows over for a minute, dry heaving. It's sickeningly loud in the otherwise silent room. He lets go of the tubing though, and Tim will take his victories where he can. He counts to twenty while he waits for Jason to shove down his gag reflex, and counts another thirty until his breathing has evened out.

“Feeling alright?” Tim enquires when Jason meets his gaze again.

He watches tears brim in the man's blue eyes, watches him mentally grapple with prioritising exactly how he wants to extract himself from this situation. Watches him briefly entertain the notion of bolting, and discard it when he realises he'll just be bringing the drop with him. That's a good sign, Tim assures himself, accepting reality is always a marked improvement.

But he's run this scenario through in his head, and he knows Jason's going to need to be sedated, or at the very least restrained. He's not going to just calmly ride out this drop on his own. And he's not going to accept their help either, which means they're going to have to pin him down for his own safety. Tim knows Jason is big enough and lucid enough to put up a decent fight when Tim comes for him, and that he's going to spring into action the moment he puts a foot forward.

A nurse who's been alerted by the commotion materialises in the doorway, takes one step into the room and freezes. Tim casts her a sharp, forcefully calm glance and mouths, “Grey.”

She backs out swiftly, disappearing from view to make (what Tim hopes is) a speedy bolt to the nearest nurses' station. Jason can't see her for the obstructing curtain, but Tim knows he knows something is up. His eyes flicker to where the door is, and back to Tim with blooming apprehension.

“Who is it?”

“It was a nurse,” Tim answers honestly, because he figures honesty can go a long way under the right circumstances. He watches Jason tense, and then unwind slightly when he continues, “But I sent her away. We've got this handled, just you and me, right?”

Jason nods at that, sharp and vicious, like he's trying to convince himself too.

As if on karma's spiteful cue, two RNs arrive on the scene.

Tim shoves out a flat-palmed hand, makes a frantic gesture for them to stop, and the RNs skid to a halt in the doorway, their leather sneakers shrieking on the LVT. There's a handful of security personnel and wardies hovering behind them, and Tim seizes control of the titling situation.

Jason's tweaking to the fact that Tim's the only thing standing between him and being forcefully restrained. Tim can read it in the curl of his lip and the hunch of his shoulders, the way his form hunkers down and coils into a stance on the bed.

“Jason,” Tim says firmly, and his tone wavers with concern. “We're going to handle this ourselves, right?”

“You can crawl back into the dick you came out of,” Jason snarls, jabbing a sharp finger at him, and Tim gets the sense that Serbia has made a real impression on his carnal vocabulary. Then Jason freezes, his gaze falling to fix on the back of his hand, where the nurses have installed a cannula for his IV. His eyes bulge, as if he's just noticing it for the first time.

And before Tim can muster a response to that, Jason wraps a hand firmly around the protruding end and rips it out of his skin.

Tim hears a shocked, dissenting shout bubble past his lips, takes a single step forward as he watches blood splash across the front of Jason's gown and sprinkle the white bed sheets at Jason's knees. Jason stares dazedly at the two-inch trocar now in his open palm, over to the blood gushing from the wound on his hand with malignant glee, and faints.

Tim can pinpoint the moment his brain signs his cognizant release form, sees the dark pool spread behind his eyes as they roll back up into his skull, and the slump in his shoulders as he's cut loose. Watches him keel towards the side of the bed and the hard, yellow linoleum below, limp as a ragdoll.

Tim launches himself across the room with the grace of a startled gazelle, screaming “Code blue, code blue!”

He somehow gets there before Jason, and catches the whole of his weight on his collarbone, ricocheting down to the tile as he wraps himself around the unconscious man. It hurts; Tim smacks the bedside cabinet on the way down, gets himself tangled in some of the wiring, and he lands entirely on his left hip, crunching their combined weight onto it.

The wardies are there in the next second, dragging Jason's limp weight off him at the barked behest of the RNs, and Tim doesn't realise until one of them seizes his fist and forcefully pries it away that he's not letting go of Jason's hospital gown. They manhandle him back onto the bed as Tim blinks up at them from the floor, breathless and forgotten as they tend to Jason's injuries.

They've already wheeled in an ECG and reinserted a cannula into the crook of his elbow when the attending physician jogs in. By then, Jason is stirring, and Tim's heart has lurched all the way up into his throat as he hovers uncertainly in the corner. He flat refuses the security guard's insistences that he vacate the room, and he takes the physician's arrival as a chance to slip past him and wedge himself closer to Jason's bed. He feels some of the tension ease off him with the proximity, and a deep part of him knows that it's his d-tendencies going into overdrive.

Jason's not handling the presence of approximately seven people in his immediate personal space well, but at least he doesn't have to ride it out for much longer when the nearest RN jams a needle into his new IV tubing and floods his system with sedative.

It takes a few moments of panicked, pained mewling before Jason goes out completely, and when he finally eases back down against the sheets, Tim doesn't think its an overstatement to say everyone in the room takes a collective exhale.

Tim shakes off the AIN who commends him on his fast response in handling the situation, and presses himself surreptitiously into a corner of the room. When he notices his hands have begun to tremble, he folds them into the small of his back and leans back to watch the RNs strip the bed. Counts his breaths and names the fifty states in backwards alphabetical order until his respiratory is below 16 breaths-per-minute and he can feel his fingers again.

Once Jason's obs have been taken and everyone's finally cleared out of the room, Tim lets the tension drain out of him, slumps back against the plaster on weak knees, and lets himself gasp in a violent, shaking breath. He rattles the inhale through dry lips, and spits the exhaled, “Fuck this.”

Then Tim picks up his notebook and his coat and goes the fuck home.

 

* * *

 

Jason spends the next four days floating in and out of consciousness, and honestly, Tim doesn't feel much different. At least Jason can chalk his up to being buffeted around by a steady drip of lorazepam. Tim doesn't even have that excuse.

Barbara shows up unannounced at his apartment sometime on Sunday. Lets herself in with the spare key he gave her, finds him hunkered down impossibly small in the leather armchair in his study, and walks right out of the room. Tim stirs to the smell of French toast and fried eggs, and staggers out to the kitchen to slump onto one of the stools at the high countertop. Barbara slides half of the serving onto a plate for him, nodding at his mumbled, “Thanks”, and takes up camp on the other chair with the remainder.

They sit in silence, the ambience broken only by the soft scrape of forks across lacquered ceramic, and the crisp crunch of fried bread. Tim's sliding an absent finger through the dregs of bright yellow yolk on his plate when Barbara speaks.

“You want to talk about it?”

He shakes his head, and then remembers that she won't let him get away with being nonverbal when he's baseline functional, and mumbles, “Not really.”

“Okay. You want me to talk about it?” she asks gently.

Tim shrugs, and Barbara turns the words over in her head before she speaks.

“Stop me if you disagree with anything I say,” she instructs, and Tim nods noncommittally. “This patient of yours is a sub. And a witness in your case. And somewhere in the course of meeting them, either in the field or in the ICU, they went down on you.”

She pauses, as if to give Tim opportunity to correct her. When he doesn't, she draws in a breath and forges on, sending each statement out tentatively onto the water, waiting for him to reject them.

“From what you've told me, this patient has used Push - or had Push used on them,” she amends when Tim frowns. “Which, understandably, you feel terrible about. And you've probably overstepped your jurisdiction as usual, and had them brought in.”

Tim doesn't refute that; Barbara knows him too well.

“So now you feel responsible for them. And knowing you swing towards a d-type, it's manifesting itself in you itching to wrap them up in a nice, cosy blanket and make them feel all better. But you can't. Because they don't want you near them. Which, again, from their perspective, is understandable and entirely valid. Am I on track so far?”

Tim nods, and can't help but wonder how much else she's going to spell out for him. Not that he doesn't appreciate it, far deeper down that he's willing to admit.

“So you've been thrown in a loop, which is why you looked like shit when I saw you at the hospital, and why you haven't contacted Cass since Thursday night. You don't want to go down.” Barbara takes a steadying breath here, her tone taking on an edge of firmness. “So I want you to tell me why haven't you called Dick.”

Tim swallows, his finger halting on the white ceramic, and tucks his elbows closer into himself. He can't articulate the heavy feeling in his chest, so he mumbles, “Not him.”

Barbara nods slowly, chewing through that. “So you want to bring this sub down, safely. Consensually. And he's not going to let you.”

Tim doesn't know at which point she picked up that he was a _he_ , but he doesn't question it. He clears his throat softly, and rasps out the first few words. “He remembered me. From when I, uh, from when I saw him in the- the facility. I didn't- It wasn't… consensual.” The word is cumbersome on his tongue, and it tastes even worse going down. “And then when I was interviewing, I pushed him, and he… He went into drop.”

Barbara takes this on with the grace and patience of a canonised saint, as if she'd suspected as much. “That would make sense. Working Push out of your system usually puts you into a pretty severe drop. I wouldn't say that was your fault.”

“Felt like my fault.”

“Maybe so, but it wasn't. Whether or not you'd been there, he would have dropped once the sedatives wore off. It was only a matter of time. You couldn't have done anything to change that.”

She lets that sink into him, and Tim tries to let it.

“Is he still at Providence?” Tim nods absently, and Barbara pauses to stack their plates, the cutlery clinking softly. “Is he still sedated?”

“Yes.”

Barbara hums to herself. “Not that I'd make this recommendation to anyone else - but have you tried sleeping in the room with him?”

Tim startles, crooks an eyebrow at her like she's suggested he hold the hospital at gunpoint.

Barbara rolls her eyes, sliding off the stool and taking up the plates with her as she answers, “I'm not talking about putting him down or even interacting with him in any way. I'm talking about getting yourself down, somewhere where you can get some actual sleep, completely separate to him. Where he's supervised and safe, and for the most part, totally oblivious to your presence.”

Tim can't concentrate enough to challenge most of that, so he says, somewhat petulantly, “I am sleeping.”

“You're dissociating,” Barbara points out. “That's not the same as sleeping.”

“I'm not sleeping in his room, while he's _unconscious_ , Barbara.”

“Have you been visiting his room?” she asks pointedly, and Tim's lips twist in displeasure. “That's what I thought. You're going there every day anyway, keeping an eye on him. You might as well throw in a few hours of shut-eye while you're there.”

When Tim's spine stiffens in protest, she backtracks slightly.

“Sleep in the hallway, then. Find a sofa in the lobby and lie down, if that makes you feel better. But you're going to need to be somewhere in his vicinity before you're going to be able to come down from this state you're worked into.”

“And what if I don't want to come down?”

The plates make a loud noise when she drops them into the sink, and Barbara busies herself with letting the hot water run for a while before she answers. “Don't want to, or don't think you deserve to?”

Tim groans, low and capitulating, in the back of his throat. “That's not fair,” he mumbles.

“Fair's not fair,” Barbara counters sagely, scrubbing at the dried yolk on the plates. “But we're here, so what do you want to do?”

They spend the next few minutes in amiable silence, mostly so Tim can dedicate what's left of his concentration to sifting through his feelings on the matter. Without the interfering haze of dynamics.

“Sometimes it sucks that you're so damn perceptive,” Tim mutters finally, resigned. “And intuitive. You want some help there?”

Barbara nods amicably, stepping back to let him slot himself in front of the sink, curled over the half-done dishes. He figures it's the least he can do.

Barbara leans her hips back against the countertop, crossing her arms loosely over her chest. She's not facing him, angled back towards the living room, but she feels like she's open to him. Like he's face-to-face with her without having to meet her gaze.

Tim sort of appreciates the lack of forced commitment right now.

“You're gonna sort yourself out, right?” Barbara asks softly, and Tim starts a bit, but doesn't answer.

She glances over at him, her brow pinched very slightly in that way that tells him she's concerned but doesn't want him to feel like it's his fault. He knows it is.

“Not that I mind coming over here to help you out - because I'm happy to help you whenever you need it, just say uncle - but I do mind. I want you to be happy, Tim, really happy. And I think we both know that you're not right now.” She draws in a steadying breath, forging on through his thick silence. “I don't know if it's just this case, or if it's your job, or something else you're not letting me see, but this isn't healthy. Hasn't been for a while now. And you've got to address it. Sooner than later, please.”

Tim says nothing, because he really hates lying to Barbara, and because he doesn't want to disappoint her. She squeezes her upper arms a little tighter, as if imagining she's hugging him, and Tim feels that consolation like she's burrowed against him.

“Take care of yourself.”

Tim lets the suds drain while she gathers her personal effects and shrugs on her coat, then he joins her in the foyer of his apartment. She smiles softly and shakes a hand through his matted locks.

“Love you, little brother.”

“Love you, Barbara,” he mumbles, and watches from the doorway until the elevator swallows her up.

He goes through the motions of a simple and quick shower, tugging on the first clean clothes he lays hands on. The drive to Providence slides by in disrupted segments, until he's standing in the lobby with his hands buried in his sweatshirt even though it's spring.

The receptionist gives him an odd look as he trudges over to the rows of tandem seating, but he stoically ignores her, folding himself across them. They're not wide enough to let him curl his knees up, which makes his chest feel open and vulnerable, and after twenty minutes of aimless shuffling, Tim concedes defeat and goes upstairs.

He finds himself in the doorway of the room and hesitates, unwilling to take a step further. The dynamics in him are screaming to go inside, but the rational part of him has enough of a foothold to send his stomach lurching with guilt every time he leans forward. And he gets the hazy sense that that feeling is only going to intensify the further into the dimmed room he goes.

So Tim slides down the wall next to the doorway and curls up as small as he can to watch the activity in the quiet hallway. He watches the wardies wheeling cots down the scuffed LVT, let's the rhythmic chirp of a heart monitor lull him as he tries to time his breathing to four of it's bleats.

Four in, hold for four, four out. Rinse and repeat.

He must sit there for an hour, just watching the tentative calm of the early morning ward. It's so familiar, feels so akin to returning home, that Tim finds his eyelids drooping.

He doesn't sleep though. Can't quite manage to push himself over that ledge despite his fatigued body yearning for the reprieve. He thinks it has something to do with how his ears keep straining for every arrhythmic soft-loud breath that filters out from the room behind him. How his pulse falters every time he hears the curl of a dreamless moan or the loud rustle of a body shifting on a hospital-grade mattress.

It takes him another rotation of Jason's attending EN before he pries his ramrod limbs apart and lumbers into the empty room. He forces himself not to look into the bed, not to let his eyes shape the shadows into the slumbering sub. Forces himself, one step after another, over to the seat beside the bed, letting the thud of his heartbeat drown out the other man.

Tim tucks his knees up to his chin, shuffles into a more secure sit wedged between the armrests, and burrows himself into the hard vinyl of the high-backed hospital chair. Then he reaches out to yank the curtain across his corner in a translucent cocoon and lets himself slip into sleep.

He wakes with the awareness that someone else is in the room, and boy, if that isn't a fun thing for his brain to negotiate with his heart and lungs.

The vice recedes a little when he realises it's two nurses busying themselves around Jason's cot, writing up his quart-hourly charts. Sandwiched behind the curtain as he is, they haven't twigged to the fact that they're not alone yet. And when the first nurse speaks, it takes more rationality than Tim thought accessible to him right now to stay silent.

“This is the Department's patient, right?” she asks, and Tim can discern the scratch of a pen over what he can only assume are the ADDS charts.

The other is fiddling with Jason's down-to-dregs IV, another cool bag laid out across his chest. She must check the cannula in Jason's elbow, because a soft, aimless groan filters through to Tim.

“Last I checked,” she responds. “They brought him in last Thursday, wheeled him past an octogenarian in cardiac arrest and a five-year-old with anaphylaxis.” Her tone is disapproving, to say the least, as if Jason was privy to the decision to admit him. And then aside, “I'm going to need two mils of lorazepam before we're done.”

The other nurse gives a soft grunt of acknowledgement, and quiet lingers while the IV tubing is pressed for air bubbles and replaced.

“You got his ADDS?”

“55, 104 over 77, 18,” the second nurse rattles off and Tim's brain fills in the blanks, familiar with this procedure. Heart rate, systolic, diastolic, respiratory. Tim has enough familiarity to know that they're all fairly low. Low enough to be below the golden threshold, but not enough to warrant heightened observation.

The nurse scribbles something onto the chart, before prompting, “What were his actuals?”

“He came in with 136 over 90.”

There's the sound of someone sucking on their teeth. “He's a one; we'll monitor it. Temperature?”

She must have tucked the thermometer into Jason's ear canal, because it beeps softly, as if on command, and she pauses for a second before answering, “A hundred point two-two.”

Tim knows that's on the northside of acceptable, but neither of the nurses verbally comment, so he can't discern if it's flagged to them.

“I just need his BGL,” the first nurse instructs, tapping a plastic pen against the clipboard. “Then we can do his feeding.”

“Hand me the lancet?”

There's a lot of subdued shuffling, the sound of rustling scrubs and Tim almost nods off again when one mutters, “Three point eight.”

The other sighs, as if this is expected but disappointing somehow. “Alright, you got the sachets? What have we got for lunch?”

“Roast pork,” the nurse reads aloud, a note of bitter amusement in her tone. “Poor bastard.”

That makes Tim's gut twist fiercely, but he doesn't unfurl from his position in the chair. He fixes his gaze on his kneecaps and breathes slowly, listening as they take up the slack of Jason's nasogastric tube.

Jason must stir partway into the set up, because one of the nurses mutters a curse under her breath, and Tim can feel the pace pick up. He's not surprised, really; between the fiddling with his cannula, the intrusion in his ear canal and the disruption to his sinuses, he would have expected a protest before now.

It's a few more minutes before either one of them speaks again, but Tim's fully awake now.

“You got the lorazepam?” one asks, her tone tight.

“You want two mils or four?” the other enquires.

“For this guy? Best do four,” the first confirms, and Tim's stomach clenches. Whether its in irritation at their practice or concern for the mostly-unconscious man on the bed, he can't tell. Maybe both. The nurse adds as she plugs the loaded needle into his IV tubing, “I don't want him waking again. The RN last night said he nearly gave her a black eye when she tried to feed him.” She chuckles bleakly. “I don't know about you, but I'm not keen on fighting this bastard.”

“I don't know why they don't just work him down,” the other chatters, and Tim doesn't realise he's clenching his teeth until his jaw gives a painful twinge. “He's combative enough for it, and he's got enough sedative in him to incentivise him.”

“Lord knows he needs a scene,” the first agrees. Tim realises with sickening clarity that they're either both doms or d-leaning duals; there's no way a sub would talk of another sub's downtime like this, even a medical professional. Like it was a convenient reprieve. Like its a stress-relief breaker you can flip and everything levels out.

“He doesn't need to be here,” the first mutters waspishly. “It's ridiculous that the Department thinks they can just wheel in anyone they want and skip the line. Who even is he? The damn President?”

The other nurse scoffs, disbelieving. “More likely some backwater terrorist. They've kept him sedated this whole time; I wouldn't be surprised if they're opting for chemical over physical restraints. Easier to manage them then.”

“Are you done?”

Startling silence fills the room, and it's a few hard breaths before Tim realises he's the one who'd spoken. Realising the game is up, he wraps a fist in the curtain and yanks it back, glaring. The nurses both start at his unveiling.

“Are you both done?” he repeats coldly, aware that his pulse is abnormally loud in his ears. “Have you said your bit?”

The one standing at Jason's elbow is the first to recover. “We were just- we didn't realise-”

“You want me to mention to your supervisor that you're discussing putting a compromised sub down, _in front of them_?” Tim snarls, his blue gaze flashing. “Or are you good to just keep that to your coffee breaks?”

“Sorry, sir,” the other one interjects, looking browbeaten. She slots the pen back into her breast pocket, smoothing down her scrubs as she glances at her colleague.

The nurse administering the food makes quick work of it, wrapping up the session in just under forty-nine minutes. Tim steps out briefly to relieve himself, but otherwise he hovers uneasily at Jason's right shoulder, curled up in the chair and angled away from the bed. Nothing is said between them, but Tim gets the distinct impression that the nurses are beginning to question his attachment to the patient. Tim is immensely grateful when they plug the tube, dispense with the puree sachets, reapply the tape on Jason's cheek and make a hasty retreat.

Once satisfied that Jason is stable and not likely to surface anytime soon, Tim unfurls from the chair with muted groans. He stretches slowly, letting his joints pop and working out the aches in his spine.

He steps out for fifteen minutes to order a coffee from the lobby cafe and make a few short calls. Once he's made his fifth call, Tim takes the nurse up on her suggestion and punches in the number for the Deputy Director with a dry mouth.

It takes a brief shouting match, several totally unveiled threats, and in the end Tim compromises on one month of special guest speaking at the academy.

By seven o'clock the next night, Jason is discharged into Tim's care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translation notes:**
> 
>  
> 
> Va niquer ta mère (French) = Go fuck your mother!
> 
> Shoferi i kamionit ishte shqiptar (Albanian) = The truck driver was Albanian 
> 
> Više nego vi (Serbian) = More than you 
> 
> \--
> 
> I don't actually speak any of the additional languages in this fic, so if you have a translation amendment, please PLEASE voice it.


	2. Consolidate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter tags:**
> 
> i. Prescription drug references  
> ii. Panic attack, paranoia, gun use  
> iii. Gun mention, alcohol use, mentioned past abuse  
> iv. Verbal threats  
> v. Mentioned past abuse, gun mention 
> 
> Please message me if I have missed any tags, so they can be added.

Jason takes the news about as well as you'd expect a drug-addled former trafficking victim to. Tim's only saving grace is that with the drop out of his system, Jason's halfway back to functional and a hundredfold more rational. 

Which means there's inevitably a screaming match that summons two concerned security guards and an athletic RN who looks like she's ready to deck the pair of them by the time the clock rolls around to seven. 

Jason's articulate and well-thought out argument goes thusly: 

“Like fuck I'm going fucking anywhere with you! They're going to have to drag me out of here unconscious before I even fucking consider setting one toe in your fucking apartment, you meddling fuck!” 

Tim's rebuttal is, luckily, a simple one. “If you don't move into my apartment, then you're going to have to stay here another night.” 

And Tim wouldn't call Jason's resigned slump tucking tail, but there's definitely a hard, displeased line to his flat mouth when he folds himself into the back of Tim's car with the personal care attendant. Doesn't stop Tim from practically bouncing to the carpark on a hyped up concoction of self-congratulatory pride and nerves. They spend the drive, however, and the elevator ride up, in absolute, cloying silence. 

Once he's keyed the lock and jimmied the door open, and they're standing awkwardly in his apartment foyer, Tim breaks the silence with a hesitant but loud, “So-” 

“Which one's my room?” Jason cuts across, and Tim feels something in him shrivel at the blunt tone. 

“Oh. It's, uh, right this way. It's only a two-bedroom apartment,” he rambles, crossing the living room to throw open the door to his newly converted study-turned-bedroom. “It's cosy, I'll admit, but I think you could come to like it.” 

He gestures in with a plastered smile that Jason doesn't return, frozen in the living room. He stares into the room, unwilling to enter, as if he thinks it's going to swallow him whole. The personal carer passes Tim a covert thin-lipped smile of commiseration over Jason's shoulder. 

“This is my room?” Jason asks, unmoving, and Tim smiles warmly, nodding. Jason side-eyes him. “Just mine? No one else's.” 

“Yours to do with as you wish,” Tim promises, and Jason inches into the doorway, the backpack he'd been issued at the hospital in-hand. 

His adoptive father had been a stickler for good old-fashioned Virginian hospitality, so Tim reaches gently for it, saying, “Let me take that for you,” and freezes when Jason yanks it out of his reach. 

He fixes Tim with a warning glare, shoulders squared as they stand nose-to-nose in the doorway. “Don't touch my things.” 

“Easy there,” Tim shrugs easily, and waits until Jason's spine has loosened and he breaks from his stiff stance. He seems to exhale, the tension washing out of him, and folds away from Tim. He casts his gaze around the room, taking a few hesitant steps in as Tim waits patiently. 

“Would it be alright if I came in?” the personal carer calls from the living room, and hoists his duffel of medical goodies into view of the door. “I need to set up some of your medication, if that's okay?” 

“Yeah, sure,” Jason says absently, and Tim presses back to let the attendant through, taking a step after him. Jason's voice cuts down like a whip. “Not you.” 

Tim blinks. “Excuse me?” 

“You can't come in,” Jason reiterates coldly. 

“Excuse me?” Tim repeats again, and is halfway to saying, “It's _my_ apartment” when Jason fixes him with that hard gaze again, the one he'd used in the interview. 

“My room, right?” Jason demands, as if enticing Tim to contradict him, to say the thought that's lingering on the tip of his tongue. A brow raises mockingly. “To do with as I wish?” 

And Tim knows exactly what he's getting at, establishing boundaries this early on. No newly discharged sub would elect to spend his weeks in recovery elbow-to-elbow with a dual who'd taken advantage of him at his weakest. Even if Tim had been trying to make it up to him in the past week. Especially if it was on that dual's terms and home turf. 

So Tim swallows hard and takes a measured step out of the bedroom, distinctly aware of when his boots transfer from plush carpet to cold tile. “Yeah,” he croaks. “Yeah, absolutely, you're right.” 

The personal carer casts him an apologetic shrug, and sets to work placing Jason's medications on the bedside table. Jason breaks the stare first, dropping the backpack onto the queen bed, and crosses over to inspect the wall-length window. Tim squeezes his nails into his fisted palms and forces himself to turn back into the living room. 

He's folded on the sofa, flicking absently through channels at breakneck speed when the personal care attendant emerges a few minutes later. 

“Hey,” he says kindly, and Tim murmurs back a response. He gestures to the spare cushion beside Tim. “Can I sit?” 

“Oh, yeah, definitely,” Tim stumbles over the words, straightening to give the man more room. 

“Not sure if we properly got introduced,” the carer apologises, and offers a hand. “I'm Garfield.” 

“Tim. Nice to meet you.” 

“You too, Tim. So, I just want to give you a quick run-through of the schedule, since I'm going to be in and out of the apartment for the next few weeks until Jason's recovery is concluded.” 

Tim nods, and mutes the television, fixing him with his full attention. “Shoot.” 

“Okay, I've given him zofran for the next day, to keep the nausea at bay,” Garfield explains readily. “I see you left him some sertraline; good call. I've told him he can take it as he chooses. It's not necessary, but he may want to take the edge off, especially as he'll be coming into a rebound drop in the next week or so.” 

“Rebound drop?” Tim asks with a frown. 

Garfield's expression is pinched. “We wouldn't normally expect it this far out from a severe scene, but given that his recovery drop was interrupted, there's the possibility that his body will try to make up for the lost time.” 

“Okay,” Tim murmurs, mulling that over, aware that Garfield is watching him. “So what do I need to do?” 

“Keep an eye out for the signs,” Garfield advises calmly. “Drowsiness, irritability, fatigue. It may be a little rougher than your average drop, but I wouldn't expect it to last any longer than four hours.” 

Tim winces at that. “Any other pointers?” 

“Let him manage himself. I know you're going to want to give him a helping hand, but it's important for him to feel in control of himself right now, especially with the drops. Give him his own space, respect his boundaries. I'm going to be coming by on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays for the first week, and then just Mondays and Fridays for the fortnight afterwards. I'm going to keep him up-to-date on his medication, make sure he hasn't developed any infections or viruses over the past year that we don't know about. We know he contracted pneumonia at one point last year. Obviously, he's behind on his immuno-boosters and his immune system is pretty compromised right now, so we're just going to monitor it. And I'm going to be checking up on him mentally, too.” 

Garfield fixes Tim with a pointed stare as he hands over a plain business card. 

“That's my mobile number. I've given it to Jason too. I'm on call 24 hours, okay? If you have any concerns, or even any questions, give me a call if it's urgent. Send me a text if it's not. I'll try to get back to you as soon as I have a spare moment. But again, try to give him some breathing space if you think he can handle it.” 

“Okay,” Tim murmurs on a shuddering breath, and swallows down his guilt. “Do you, uh, do you want to stay for dinner? I'm just about to throw something together.” 

Garfield beams. “That would be great. Let me help you.” 

Tim's gotten pretty decent at cooking over the past eight years or so, since his college days of pot-noodles and 2 a.m. study poptarts. He can put together a solid cassoulet and garnish it with appetisers, but he gets the feeling Jason is going to want something simple and filling, so he opts for bacon-wrapped chicken baked on a bed of onions and tomatoes. 

Garfield eats with them, and he and Tim chatter amicably about working in Virginia, while Jason endures in resolute silence. Garfield doesn't push him to socialise, and Tim takes his lead, shuffling over to help him wash the dishes once the table has been cleared. Jason hangs around while they dry everything, posted with his arms crossed next to the empty table, as if he feels obligated to be present while Garfield's around. Tim has barely closed the front door behind the carer when he hears Jason's bedroom door slam shut. 

So Tim hangs his head with a suppressed sigh and reminds himself that he asked for this, that he wanted it, and that he needs to give Jason the space he needs. Even if he's acting like a grounded fourteen-year-old whose console has been confiscated. 

Tim sets his jaw and closes his bedroom door behind himself, locking himself in the quiet of his own thoughts and promising himself that tomorrow is a new day.  

 

* * *

 

Jason's mood plateaus at measurable animosity for the next week. Tim only sees him whenever he's serving meals, and those are taken in stiff, cold silence. For the most part, Jason stays in his room, devouring the stack of novels Tim had left piled beside his bedside on second thought. The one time he'd tried to subtly wedge himself between the sofa armrest and Jason while he'd been watching some nature documentary called _Our Planet_ , Jason had slid off the sofa and was out of the room before Tim had even fully settled on the pillows. The frigidity is arctic, and Tim tries to be a sensible, rational adult and not take it personally. 

As frustrating as they are, Tim takes Jason's rebuffs as a lesson in patience and humility. Virtues that he's sure Barbara would gladly point out he is lacking in. He gives Jason space wherever possible, and tries to accommodate for him where he can't. 

By the time Monday rolls around again, Jason has chewed through all but two novels and most of the social documentaries that Netflix has to offer. Tim can see him beginning to wear thin in places, and he's sure Garfield notes it too on his regular visits. Jason's skirting close to another drop, and Tim takes that as his cue to give the man even more space. Not that he really gets a choice in the matter. 

The Deputy Director makes good on Tim's promise of one month's guest speaking at the academy, and Tim wakes Sunday morning to a full posted schedule of nearly back-to-back hourly sessions throughout the week. He realises that he's going to have to leave Jason home alone all of Monday, and he can't risk setting him lose on the city just yet, not with his looming case and ongoing recovery. So he sets Jason up with a full Netflix marathon playlist and two new Dean Koontz novels, and waves himself out the door with a thermos of coffee, locking it behind him. 

He estimates he's got maybe another week before Jason goes entirely stir-crazy and does something like trash his apartment on principle. He's banking on Garfield's regularly scheduled visits to stretch it a little further, for both their sakes. Turns out he's wrong on both counts. 

Tim's apartment remains intact until the early hours of Wednesday morning, when Tim staggers home after a full day of speaking in classes to find his foyer barricaded with the dining room table. He wedges the door open and manages to squeeze through, but it's a tight fit and he has to abandon his briefcase satchel in the coat closet so that he can climb over the monolith of wood. 

Luckily, most of the rest of the apartment is untouched. The curtains are drawn across the living room-balcony floor-to-ceiling windows, some of the dining chairs have been propped against them, and most of the lights are off. It looks like someone panicked about someone busting in through all available doors and elected to barricade them off preemptively. Tim doesn't need a consultancy contract with the FBI to know that there's only one person who could be this paranoid and have indefinite access to his apartment. 

He raps a knuckle on Jason's closed bedroom door, and when that elicits no response, cracks it to glance inside. Only the bedside lamp is on, and Tim can't spot him in the shadowed corners of the room. He even checks in the walk-in-robe he's made into his makeshift archives room following his study transformation, but it's equally as empty. 

He clenches his jaw and tries to reason that Jason's probably in drop. Probably woke with the intense feeling of being hunted that plagues some of the more severe drops, and responded accordingly. Probably didn't even cross his mind that dining chairs leant against full-glass windows weren't going to stop a SWAT team busting in if they needed to. He tries to remind himself that coping mechanisms - while convenient, sometimes - aren't always entirely rational, and that given Jason's recent history with certain Albanian fucks, this probably seemed entirely justified from his standpoint. 

Tim finds Jason with his back pressed to the radiator in Tim's bedroom, blue eyes fixed on the doorway, and angled with a full view of the room. It's a defensive position, Tim notes immediately, giving him the greatest opportunity to react to any oncoming, keeping the threat in front of him. 

So Tim takes a slow meander around the bottom of the bed, making sure his hands are at all times in view. He turns to face Jason when he gets to the other side, cognizant of the man's gaze following him the whole way. He's got his legs half-curled up, his wrists crooked over his knees as if he'd recently been wrapping them around his shins but thought better of it. His chest is rising in slow, measured breaths, but they're too shallow to be natural. Jason's features are gaunt, a heavy fatigue settling over his brow as he watches Tim with resigned distrust. 

Tim slides down to sit on his heels, bringing himself to Jason's height. Mostly because he knows that's what he'd want if he was backed into a corner with a dom in his personal space. “Hey,” he says softly when the silence lingers. 

Jason's gaze flashes up to meet his, irritable. “Don't,” he orders bluntly, his throat raw from disuse. “Don't pull any of that dom shit on me.” 

Tim spreads his hands amicably. “I'm not doing anything. I just want to know that you're okay.” 

“Am I breathing?” Jason sneers back, his tone testy and defensive. 

“That's not really an answer,” Tim responds softly, and pauses. “Let me just-” 

“No,” Jason repeats, louder this time, and flattens his spine against the radiator. They stare one another down for a long, terse minute, while Tim tries not to chew the inside of his cheek off and Jason tries to bring his heart rate back into line. It's taking most of Tim's willpower and concentration to _stay_ , to not cross the room and tend to the sub who is so deeply in drop that he hasn't even noticed he's picked a hole through his sweater sleeve with his fretting. 

But Tim knows Jason's in a bad spot right now, and the last thing he needs is someone usurping his control again. Better to let him ride this one out on his own, and get it out of his system. Tim can't bring himself to turn and abandon him totally though. So he stays, and waits. 

Jason finally huffs, glancing aside before his glare returns full force. He extends an open palm, and Tim doesn't move an inch. “Give me a gun.” 

“Why do you want a gun?” Tim returns immediately. It's an entirely valid request, and he can see the logic in _why_ Jason would want a gun, but that doesn't necessarily mean he should just hand a loaded firearm to a jittery sub solidly into drop. 

“I don't _want_ a gun,” Jason responds, his tone straining for calm and sincerity, “I _need_ a gun. Give me your gun.” 

“I don't have a-” 

The look Jason gives him is so infinitely deprecating, so distrustful and _disappointed_ that Tim's mouth snaps closed of its own accord. He reaches back into the holster that presses against his lower back, pivoting slightly so he can keep his hands in Jason's line of sight. Then he slowly pulls the gun out, his palm wrapped around the muzzle, and gradually lowers it to the timber floorboards. 

Jason watches the motions in rapturous silence. He jolts forward when Tim slides the G19 across the distance, snatching it up off the floor, as well as the magazine that follows shortly after. 

His gaze doesn't break from Tim's but for the negligibly quick glimpse into the magazine, before he snaps it into the well with sharp, precise movements. Tim can tell instantly that he's familiar with firearms, has clocked some decent time on a gun range. Jason palms the slide, confirming that there's a bullet in the chamber before he secures the grip and levels the barrel at Tim's forehead. 

His heart kicks up a gear, but Tim makes certain not to move, keeping his fingers spread across the floorboards in front of him. “You count all those?” Tim asks conversationally, but it's too forced to be casual. They're talking, at least. He tilts his head towards the magazine, as if to clarify. 

“There's fifteen,” Jason answers bluntly, not moving. 

Tim blinks, offers him an easy smile. “You barely even looked-” 

“There's fifteen,” Jason repeats more firmly. “And one in the chamber.” When Tim shifts, he barks, “Don't-” 

“I'm just sitting down,” Tim explains calmly, and tucks his ankles under himself, facing Jason. When Jason's breathing has evened out again, and Tim's reasonably confident that he's not going to twitch-fire and bury a bullet in Tim's skull, he draws his hands back into his lap. 

“How long have you been sitting here?” 

“What time is it?” Jason retorts harshly. 

“Can I check my phone?” Tim asks, and waits till Jason gives him a quick, permitting nod before he slides it out of his pocket and checks the display. “Three thirty.” 

“Two hours then.” 

Tims hums, passing that over in his mind. Jason's arm sinks, the glock's sights shifting to hover over his solar plexus before returning up to his sternum. Tim watches all this happen with a patient, calm air. “You want to get something to eat?” 

“Are you hungry?” 

“No,” Tim admits. “I ate before I got here. But you're hungry.” 

“Doesn't matter,” Jason answers immediately, dismissively. 

Tim ignores that. “I can order in some takeout. There's an all-night Chinese joint on Fairfax. They can deliver in twenty minutes.” 

“Not hungry,” Jason returns, and Tim bites down on his tongue so he doesn't accidentally say something he'll regret. Jason adjusts his grip on the glock, and doesn't look like he's even close to conceding that he needs help. Tim can spot a losing battle when he sees one. 

Tim sighs. “Any chance you'll consider letting me leave so I can crawl into my bed for the next four hours? I've got a meeting at eight.” 

Jason doesn't answer, doesn't move from his statuesque pose for so long that Tim has started calculating how many strides it will take to cross the room and disarm him of the gun before he can shoot him. His odds aren't good. 

“Okay,” he says finally, and nods very slightly to himself. He looks like he's trying to convince himself, and it's taking a lot of effort. “Okay, you can leave.” 

Tim doesn't move, just sits and blinks, before the first hitch of a chuckle bubbles up in his throat. Jason's brow creases at the sound, and Tim swallows the rest down, his tone apologetic as he says, “Sorry, I didn't mean to- it's just-” He gestures aimlessly around the room, and Jason's gaze narrows in on his empty hand. He meets Jason's gaze again, unable to quash the smile that's plastered on his lips. “This is my room.” 

Jason blinks at him for a long, drawn-out moment. “What?” 

“This is _my_ bedroom,” Tim reiterates calmly, gently, and Jason seems to realise that perhaps, maybe, he's not actually in his own bedroom that Tim's been enough of an asshole to invade. Maybe in the midst of his paranoia he'd shut himself in the first bedroom he'd come across and not noticed till just now that it wasn't his own. He watches panic flicker behind Jason's eyes and the colour drain from his face at the prospect that he's going to have to negotiate getting _around_ Tim without putting his back to him. 

Tim takes pity and rises to his feet, wincing when the gun trains in on his chest again, Jason's arm ramrod stiff where it wavers in front of him. He keeps his hands in sight.  

“You know what, it's fine. I'm going to take the sofa,” Tim offers. When Jason doesn't acknowledge it, he takes a tentative step towards the door and prays that Jason's not going to shoot him. “You can keep the gun for tonight, yeah? But I'm going to need it back tomorrow at eight. Or, later this morning.” He frowns to himself, and banishes the thought. 

Jason's arm follows him on his slow and steady trek to the bedroom door, doesn't waver as Tim eases it open with his foot and half-slides out of the room. 

“I'm going to close this door, okay? And I'm not going to come in till the morning. And I'll knock, when I do,” he adds. “It's all yours, I promise. I'll be on the sofa if you need anything. Just shout.” 

Then he closes the door, lets out the breath he'd been holding, and trudges over to the closet to get himself some spare blankets. He sets up camp on the sofa, with his toes pointed towards his bedroom and the door entirely in view. Jason doesn't emerge anytime in the next half hour, and by four, Tim's dead to the world. 

 

* * *

 

Tim rescues his gun the next morning on his way out to work, spends a good fifteen minutes convincing the man to surrender the firearm with the promise that it'll be leaving with him. Then he fires a text off to Garfield and makes his way to the academy. 

Tim stops by Pentagon City on his way home. Drops a grand on a Galaxy S10 at the Verizon store on the third level, and gets some headphones thrown in for free. Fills a grocery bag with two pints of Ben & Jerry's new Glampfire Trail Mix, and one pint of Cherry Garcia Frozen Yoghurt because he figures the best cure for a post-drop hangover is frozen sweets. Then he throws in a thirty dollar bottle of Grey Goose for good measure and heads home. 

The dining table and chairs are back where they should be when he arrives. Tim heads straight to the kitchen and pulls out the blender, hefting an unhealthy serve of ice cream into the jar and upending an approximation of three shots in. He's nearly finished pouring the second high glass when he notices Jason leaning against the breakfast counter. 

He tries to pass off his startled reaction, scooping up the two glasses and offering them as a peace treaty. 

“Thanks,” Jason murmurs, looking much more put-together, and absolutely exhausted. He takes the more chocolate-rich of the two, and hooks an ankle around a stool, hoisting himself up. 

Tim smothers his smile in a well-timed sip and joins him at the high countertop. “How're you feeling?” he asks, hesitant to break the unspoken truce. 

“Like death warmed up,” Jason mutters, and Tim snorts into his milkshake. He takes a lengthy sip, and frowns. “Does this have vodka in it?” 

“Yup,” Tim quips, and downs a third. “I've found myself sober on the other side of a shit drop before. I'd like to think I've found some good hangover remedies by now.” 

Jason snickers, and the sound makes Tim freeze for a minute. “We used to take shots of plum rajika for morning-after cures. Milkshakes are probably a bit more socially acceptable.” 

“Fuck socially acceptable,” Tim retorts. “These taste amazing. And they're a good way to cool down the fever too.” 

“Sounds like you know a bit about drops,” Jason admits, and that sounds as close to an admission of _thank you_ that Tim's going to get. 

Tim shrugs carefully. “I've been on both sides of the fence, comes with the dual territory. So yeah, I know how shit it can be. And I know how much you don't want a dom crowding you like a mother hen. But I also know how much it sucks to watch someone go through drop and not be allowed to help them.” 

Jason's mouth peters into a thin line. “Yeah, keep holding your breath on that one.” 

“I'm not talking about me,” Tim says easily, rolling with the jab. “I don't expect you to come to me to sort out any of your drops _or_ your scenes. I get that, I really do. But that doesn't mean you shouldn't be getting help with this stuff. Going down can be half-decent with the right pro-dom, so you should consider getting one. Talk to Garfield about it.” 

Jason hums at that, and picks at some still-iced cream in his milkshake. “I'll think about it.” 

Tim nods, happy with that small degree of progress. Then he clears his throat. “I, uh, got you a gift too. In the bag on the other side of the counter. Figured you'd be a little stir-crazy, and thought that maybe a connection to the outside world wouldn't go astray.” 

Jason leans over the breakfast counter and snags the Verizon bag, inspects the neatly packaged box within before he turns to frown at Tim. “This is a phone.” 

“Wow, C. Auguste Dupin, great deductive skills there,” Tim teases, and Jason shakes his head. 

“Did you just 'no shit, Sherlock' me? How _old_ are you to reference Edgar Allen Poe of all people?” 

“You got the reference,” Tim points out around a sip of milkshake. “Can't be that old then.” 

“Whatever you say, Adrian Veidt.” 

“Ouch, super rich neo-nazi? That's a little harsh.” 

“Not your preference?” 

“I'd have preferred Tony Stark, but I didn't think you'd let it slide.” 

“I'll negotiate for Smaug, but Stark is definitely a stretch.” 

“Attacked in my own home,” Tim mutters, and polishes off his milkshake. “You got a preference for dinner?” 

“Anything with wine in it,” Jason replies, and passes Tim half of a smile. “And thank you. For helping me through that drop. And the rest, I guess.” 

They're skirting dangerously close to a conversation about that facility in Albania, and Tim's not ready for that kind of shitfight. Not with the truce less than twenty minutes old. So he slides off the stool with a bright smile and busies himself with clean up. 

“I wanted to discuss something with you,” Jason hedges, his tone thoughtful, and Tim's stomach churns. He doesn't look back from the sink, eyes fixated on the faucet. 

“Yeah?” he prompts, aiming for casual. 

“I wanted to ask you about an allowance.” 

Tim blinks. Not even close to what he was thinking of. “An allowance?” he repeats stupidly. 

“Yeah, like a weekly allowance,” Jason reiterates hesitantly, eyes fixed firmly on his milkshake. 

Then it clicks. He's talking about a financial allowance, like a stipend. And it finally crosses Tim's mind that of course he wouldn't have any money to his name. He's just spent twelve months in Serbia, and while Tim's sure Jason definitely earnt some dinars, he has no doubt that whatever he'd gleaned from his cartel days was forfeit the minute he was handed over to an Albanian trafficking ring. 

“Absolutely,” Tim says as soon as he recovers, nodding emphatically. “Yes, definitely.” He tries not to wince when Jason looks up at him with a surprised and deeply grateful expression. 

“I'm happy to work for it,” Jason interjects, and Tim cuts him off. 

“You don't have to work for anything here.” 

Jason frowns at that, his features twisting into the barest hint of distrust. “You can't just give me money for nothing.” 

“Can and will,” Tim retorts, and it has the hallmarks of a light threat. 

Jason _really_ doesn't take that well. His scowl deepens. “No, I don't deserve free handouts. I want to work for it, _earn_ it-” 

“You don't owe me anything,” Tim starts, and this time he's the one cut off. 

“It's not a matter of owing something,” Jason says hotly, and shoves his milkshake across the counter, away from him. Whatever fleeting shreds of joy were loitering in Tim's chest swiftly dissipate at the sight. “I don't want to be beholden to you. I don't want to be reliant on you, like some sort of burden.” 

“You're not a burden to me,” Tim says firmly. “And you haven't let me provide for you-” 

“You've provided everything for me,” Jason contradicts, and Tim shoots him a sharp glare. 

“Yeah, and you haven't _let me_ ,” Tim reaffirms. “You've fought me every step of the way so far. And you're probably going to fight me on this, too.” 

Jason's glare darkens incrementally. “You think so?” 

“You've got a serious problem with asking for help. No, not even asking; you've got a problem _accepting_ help when it's offered.” 

“Help comes with expectations,” Jason grinds out between gritted teeth. 

“You think I'm tallying all of these exchanges like some sort of sick tab?” Tim sneers, honestly disgusted by the thought. “That I'm expecting to be able to cash in on every act of philanthropy? You're not a charity case - I don't view you as a charity case. I just want to make sure you don't go through any more shit. Lord knows you've been through enough.” 

“And you'd know the shit I've been through,” Jason retorts coldly. 

Tim feels that like a sharp knife to the gut. “If you're going to throw that in my face every time you don't get your way, then-” 

“Then what?” Jason bellows, springing to his feet. “You keep throwing it in my face. Any time you're not trying to fucking dominate me like I'm some poor, downtrodden sub in need of a half-decent scene.” 

Tim feels the heat burning through him like wildfire, too far gone to be shoved down or redirected. He knows it spits out in his words as he tenses and leans towards Jason like he's under attack. “I'm not fucking trying to dominate you! Fuck! I'm just concerned about you like a regular fucking human being would be!” 

“You don't fucking know me!” Jason shouts, and Tim stiffens. “You don't know the first thing about me! You've known me for what? Three weeks? Not even that. You don't know anything about me _other_ than my dynamic, which - newsflash - is not the bread and butter of my personality.” 

“Oh, I can see that,” Tim hisses, and regrets it even as he says the sharp words. 

Jason hitches into a whole new range of pure rage. “Oh, you can, can you? Not what you'd expect a perfect sub to be? Sorry to fucking disappoint you, Drake. I'm not your perfect victim; I'm not soft or whimpering or _grateful_ , and I'm never fucking going to be. So banish that idea as soon as you can, because if you thought this was going to be some great reconciliation that absolves you of your sins, it's not going to be. I haven't forgotten. I don't forgive you. That's not changing anytime soon.” 

Tim tries to find the words, he really fucking does. But his brain jams between two gears and leaves him standing there, trembling angrily and utterly floored as Jason shoves away from the benchtop and makes a hasty retreat to his bedroom. Tim snags his abandoned keys off the counter and practically sprints down to the lobby, eager to be free of Jason's burning, eviscerating presence. 

 

* * *

 

When Tim's a lot calmer and a lot further away from Jason, he sets up a checking account. He puts it in both of their names, partly so Jason can feel like he owns something, and partly because he doesn't want it to seem like he's just depositing an allowance. Tim leaves one of the debit cards for Jason to find on the counter as he heads off to the academy one morning, along with a pamphlet guide to setting up internet banking, and retains the other for himself. 

He opens the account with two grand, and then deposits a further five grand five hours later after he's debated the pros and cons at length. He spends the next week monitoring Jason's purchases through the online banking app, and it soothes his paranoia somewhat. He knows it's probably his shitty d-type tendencies manifesting themselves in financial provision, but it really does relax him to know that despite their current stalemate, he's at least able to provide Jason with _some_ personal freedom. 

When the account drops down to six-thousand-six-hundred, Tim tops it up with another grand. It's withdrawn down to fifty dollars less than twelve hours later. 

Tim wishes he could say he's surprised. Jason doesn't give him any indication that he's transferred the money, and he's smart enough to withdraw it in lump cash sums before presumably redepositing it in his own entirely new personal account, so Tim can't even track an electronic transfer. It's not that he's angry that Jason's taken the money - he couldn't care less about that. Tim's just pissed that he was stupid enough to seriously think that he could get away with monitoring Jason's expenditures like some distrustful parent. 

So he doesn't mention the withdrawal when they sit down to dinner that night, and doesn't bring it up in the days that follow. 

Jason's mood does improve though. Now that he feels he's shirked some of Tim's overprotective control, he's a lot more reserved and much less hostile when they pass each other in the common areas. He even lets Tim take up camp on the lone armchair on Saturday evening when he's sitting down to watch the crime documentary _Making A Murderer_. 

The freedom to explore Arlington county on his own merit has nipped the stir-craziness in the bud too. And Jason's always home by seven o'clock, in time for dinner, and never leaves before Tim departs for work, so Tim can't really complain. On the days when Tim works from home, he's even polite enough to give him forewarning as he ducks out the door. 

Essentially, Jason becomes the perfect roommate. He keeps his bedroom and the common areas tidy, he's mindful of Tim's at-times hectic scheduling, and every three nights he cooks dinner for the pair of them. Jason's slowly making his way recipe-by-recipe through an authentic Serbian cookbook by Danijela Kracun that he ordered online, and Tim's just pleased he's invested in something. Besides, coming home to an apartment that smells of đuveč and rinflajš is turning out to be a really good end to Tim's days, one that he's increasingly looking forward to. 

They've fallen into a sort of easy rhythm, and Tim could almost call the atmosphere amiable. His work on the case picks up too, so his mandatory guest speaking gets put on hold while he's putting together evidence for the prosecution and preparing himself to be called as a witness in court. It's hard, but fulfilling work, and Tim's clocking longer and longer days, but he doesn't mind. He's more balanced than he's been in weeks - months, even - and the longer the stalemate holds, the further Tim lets his stiff guard slip down. 

Which is why the call completely blindsides him. 

He's crossing campus on a blistering mid-summer day, when the temperature is soaring into the high eighties. He's juggling an iced latte in one hand and his laptop briefcase in the other, so he fumbles his work mobile to his ear without checking the caller ID and answers with an inattentive, “Yeah?” 

“You're a dead man, Drake,” the voice on the other end growls amicably, and Tim's pulse checks out for a few seconds. He bolts across the remaining yards of the courtyard he's in to set his latte atop a retaining wall, and dumps his briefcase in the same moment. 

“Did you get my gift?” he purrs back down the line, and yanks it off his ear to boot the developer app in the background. He fuses it back to his ear with a forced smile and a lilting tone. “I hope you consider my date request. Gave you a time and location and everything.” 

The Albanian escort scoffs, and the sound makes Tim want to yank his own teeth out. “The subpoena? I wouldn't think that an agent like you would show up to a court date. You strike me as the love-and-leave type.” 

Tim shoves down the flutter of panic clawing its way up his throat, injects a sultry smile into his tone and replies casually, “Not this time, baby.” 

“You'll be there?” the man mock-simpers, and Tim's struck with how fucking odd these interactions always seem to go for him. 

“With bells on,” he responds with conviction. He's counting the seconds in the back of his mind, hoping that the new release on the app has fixed the lag in the GPS locator. It had been the wizzkids in the FBI's tech department's latest invention, designed to trace a call mid-operation on any handheld smartphone. It was still technically in development, but that hadn't stopped Tim from applying for special consideration to access the download. 

“You flatter us, Drake,” the escort jeers, and Tim hears the distant chime of a kitchen timer in the background. “Ah, that's our time up, I'm afraid. Make sure to polish up those pretty bells for me.” 

Tim must stand there for a good five minutes with the dial tone bleating in his ear before he peels it away to check the alert for inconclusive results from the developer app. His iced latte is half-melted on the retaining wall, and Tim can hear his pulse jumping in his ears. 

He punches in a number on speed-dial and slings his briefcase over his shoulder, snatching up the latte as he makes double-time back across campus. 

“Good afternoon, this is the Security Division,” a voice chirps on the other end. “How may I direct your call?” 

“I need to check in two devices for a breach, and I need a car sweep,” Tim rattles off, saluting a bus as he jogs across a crosswalk. “Possible bomb threat. And my apartment in Arlington,” he adds with a sharp sting of dread. “When can you coordinate that for me?” 

Once the clerk takes his details and checks his laptop and mobile in for a full scan, Tim pulls out his personal mobile and calls Jason, jittering in the lobby as the phone rings through twice. Jason picks up with a distracted, “Who's this?” 

“It's me, it's Tim,” Tim stammers, and he can feel Jason straighten on the other end, tipped off by his tone. “What are you doing right now?” 

“Cooking,” Jason responds, somewhat hesitantly. “Goulash.” 

“I can't tell you why right now, but I need you to take your phone and keys and leave the apartment,” Tim orders. “I'll meet you at that Republik place, yeah?” 

He can hear Jason moving on the other end of the line. “You want me to wait for you there, or-?” 

“Yeah, stay at Republik. Wait for me. Stay safe. I'll meet you there.” 

 

* * *

 

Jason's tucked into the corner of the cafe when Tim arrives. He's sitting sideways on his seat, leaning back against the wall windows, ensnared in a paperback copy of _The Rooster Bar_. Tim is inexplicably and entirely soothed by the careless sight, enough that he feels the tense hunch of his shoulders slip away. 

Tim all but collapses into the seat across the parquet table from him, and Jason looks completely unperturbed. He opens his mouth to gush relief, but Jason's brow creases in a warning frown, and Tim pauses. He waits a good four minutes before Jason, still scanning the pages of his book, says coolly, “I'm assuming you had a good reason to drag me out of the apartment halfway through making goulash?” 

Tim's knocked breathless by that, and he's laughing before he realises. Jason's gaze is cutting. “I'm sorry, it's just- God, you're such an asshole. I just, possibly, saved your life.” 

Jason crooks an eyebrow at that, setting the book aside. “O-kay. Want to run that one past me again?” 

Tim sobers somewhat. “You want a coffee? I need a coffee. It's been a long day.” 

“Sure,” Jason hedges, and surveys him. “You seem really off-kilter.” 

“Yeah, like I said: long day. Latte?” 

Jason nods, and Tim approaches the counter to order. When he returns, Jason has folded the book out of sight, his whole attention fixed on Tim as he crosses his arms on the tabletop. “So, Mr FBI agent, why are we staking out a secret cafe a block from the apartment?” 

Tim runs a hand through his hair. “Bomb threat.” 

Jason's brows rise at that. “Alright, that's a decent excuse; I'll hear it.” 

“Got a call from-” Tim pauses, unsure whether he should tell Jason that the men who had held him captive for four months have somehow tracked down Tim's work mobile. Questions briefly whether, in the reverse situation, he'd want to know the truth. “From an Albanian.” 

Jason stiffens, his gaze darkening perceptibly. “Which one?” 

“That escort,” Tim answers bluntly, and Jason's lip curls. There's a fair flash of fear there too, amidst the fury, and Tim does his best to ignore it. “They didn't ask about you. I don't even think they know you're with me.” 

“What prompted this?” Jason asks discerningly. “Other than you ordering a raid on their base.” 

“I'm taking them to court,” Tim points out. “They got their subpoena.” 

“Y-you subpoenaed them?” Jason stutters, dumbstruck. “Are you shitting me?” 

Tim shrugs uncomfortably. “I didn't think they'd be able to _track me down_. If I'd known, then I would have moved us-” 

“No, no,” Jason says quickly, right as they're interrupted by the waitress delivering their coffees. Once they've thanked her and she departs, Jason beckons Tim into his confidence with a wild smirk. “You _subpoenaed_ Albanian gangsters.” 

And now that he's said it like that, Tim can see the ridiculousness of it. It washes the tension out of him like water from a bath, and he laughs. “Yeah, so, I guess I didn't see it that way.” 

“Fuck me,” Jason chortles into his hot latte, and his smile is a full grin now. “God, I know exactly which expression that fucker would have had opening it too.” 

“I wasn't exactly sure they'd even get it. I had it posted to their facility after we cleaned it out,” Tim admits. “Didn't think they'd come back to check it. But apparently they did.” 

“And you're going to summon them to the International Court of Law with the power of legally enforceable subpoenas. They don't stand a chance.” 

“Don't be an ass,” Tim chides, but it's amused. “They got the message, didn't they?” 

“And you figured they'd rig the apartment?” Jason summises, and Tim shrugs. It seems a bit far fetched when said in that tone, but Tim has an on-again-off-again relationship with karma, so he knows better. “Do you have any evidence that they know where you live?” 

“They got my mobile number,” Tim points out. 

“Did you use your phone at the warehouse?” Jason asks around a sip. 

“N-” Tim pauses, thinks back to the missed call that was waiting for him after his tour. “Yes, actually. Huh. Don't know why I put it past Albanian gangsters not to go snooping through someone's phone.” 

“Don't take it personally,” Jason advises with a knowing smile. “We screened all our dealers' mobiles for three months before we gave them any product. Can never be too careful in this technological age.” 

“I'll keep that in mind,” Tim promises, and eyes the menu from their table across the room. “You think the apartment is safe then? Or will we have to set up our base here amidst a steady caffeine supply?” 

“They won't have rigged the apartment,” Jason says with quiet confidence, and catches Tim staring at him. He rolls his eyes and shrugs somewhat uncomfortably. “It's not personal enough. They like to think they've made an impact on people's lives. They're not the bomb-from-afar kind of gangsters.” 

“Ah, wondrous,” Tim says aloofly. “So I just need to keep an eye out for Albanian gangsters moving into the neighbourhood. Noted.” 

Jason snorts. “Yeah, pretty much. But you're assuming they've gotten all the way over here from middle-of-nowhere Berzane and past TSA without raising any flags. That's a big if.” 

“You're not wrong. But I still feel like I should be furnishing you with some sort of weapon.” 

“Buy me a gun,” Jason quips readily. “A G19 is concealable, will do me fine.” 

“You're not getting a gun,” Tim chastises. “You're forgetting you nearly shot me the other week. Maybe self-defence classes are more up your alley.” 

“You can shove your self-defence classes up _your_ alley,” Jason mutters into his mug, and Tim smiles. 

“Alright, we'll meet halfway then. I'll lend you my baseball bat. Versatile, lightweight, and minimal training required.” 

Jason stares at him a long moment, before shaking his head in stunned amazement. “You're unbelievable.” 

“ _You're_ welcome.” 

“Asshole.” 

Tim takes that jab, rolls with it and casts his gaze back up to the menu board. “You think chocolate croissants are an acceptable dinner food, or should we go to the Mexican joint a block over?” 

“Definitely not croissants.” 

“Uncle Julio's it is,” Tim declares, and slaps down a Hamilton on the table, rising to his feet. “They make the best honey chipotle chicken. And they've got chocolate piñatas to die for.” 

Jason smiles a private sort of smile, and follows his lead. “Whatever you say, agent.”


	3. Ameliorate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter tags:**
> 
> i. Drug references, past drug use, mentioned violence  
> ii. Drug references, graphic violence, verbal threats, minor injury  
> iii. No tags apply.  
> iv. Non-consensual frisking, mentioned past abuse, alcohol mention  
> v. Character POV panic attack 
> 
> Please message me if I have missed any tags, so they can be added. 
> 
> All non-English text is underlined. You can read the English translation by hovering over or clicking the text.   
> Translation notes are at the end of the chapter.

Living with Tim is nice. And refreshing. 

Jason's used to close-quarters living, to sharing a studio with four or five other people. Used to narrowing his possessions down to a backpack-sized collection. Container ships don't tend to offer penthouse suites, especially not to ordinary seamen. Learning to fold oneself and all of one's belongings into a 13-by-6-by-7-foot cabin for a month-long journey with next to no time on-shore to restock is an artform. Jason had learnt to cut down to bare essentials long before he'd shacked up with a Serbian drug cartel. 

When you work in a drug cartel, there is a distinct lack of personal ownership. It isn't a job. You don't get to go home at the end of the day and lovingly tend to your collection of houseplants or pick up on that project you've been doing in your down time. When you join a drug cartel, they own your ass. 

Jason had spent the first three months bunking in five-person studio apartments until he had worked his way up the ranks. Personal space was a luxury, and keeping one's private items sacred usually involved a few fistfights and clear marking out of one's territory. Jason had had a single mattress to himself, and one month in, one of the larger and more self-entitled of the newbies had decided that he liked it more than his sleeping mat. Jason had walked away with a swollen eye socket and a gash that ran the length of his jaw. The newbie had come off with a broken nose, two broken fingers, both lips split, and a dislocated wrist. No one else had tried to take Jason's bedding again, and by the time the next round of unwitting newbies had moved in, Jason had already worked his way up the hierarchy enough that he was transferred to a two-person bedroom further uptown. 

Turns out drug cartels don't hand out wages, or dental, or leave entitlements. They do assign you a small thousand-square-foot apartment for cohabitation. They feed you, clothe you, and handle all your daily expenses. In twelve months, Jason didn't spend a single dinar of his own on maintaining himself. He was assigned a weekly allowance, and anything he didn't manage to spend went back into the cartel pool at the end of the seven days. Rinse and repeat. No opportunity for savings, and minimal margin for personal spending. 

Once he'd climbed past the first tier and was rubbing elbows with low-level enforcers and district dealers, they started assigning him a seven thousand dinar personal slush fund with his regular allowance. By the time he had four districts under his watch, his fund was up to fifteen thousand. 

It gave him enough to slide about three-quarters of it into synth to get himself down each month, and the rest he funnelled into luxury items like domestic coffee, new novels and a Spotify subscription so that he could listen to the Australian Rock Greats while running surveillance. 

And then, once he'd been sold out and drugged up and handed over to an Albanian trafficking ring, he'd alternated between being shoved into a classroom-sized room with nine other subs and being locked in a large retrofitted supply closet while he churned through the withdrawal phases of Push like an outboard motor chews through a sandbank. 

So having a bedroom and ensuite all to himself was nothing short of a marvel for Jason. And while Tim was quietly aware of what having that space to call his own meant to Jason, he didn't think it had quite registered with him just how appreciated it was. 

Even after a month, Jason can admit that it's still pretty bare. He's bought himself a small bookshelf to store his growing library, and he's dropped nearly five hundred dollars on a decent interchangeable wardrobe. But other than that, the room is exactly the same as it was when Tim had handed it over to him. 

He's learning to pick up hobbies again. He's gotten into Serbian cooking, partly because he didn't have the chance to cook much when he used to live alone, and partly because he misses the cuisine. Spending a year in the Mediterranean tends to leave a distinct impact on your perception of acceptable culinary fare. 

He's reading still, because he's always had a way of devouring books, even when he was a little kid. And be damned if four months deprivation is going to dull his four-hundred words-per-minute comprehension speed. 

Having a lot of free time on your hands tends to show itself in new hobbies too. Jason's taken to exploring the county area most days. Has even worked out the best walking routes to send him through the Lubber Run Amphitheater so he can catch the latest up-and-coming local bands playing. He's got a mental mud map of the best and worst coffee joints in a twenty-block radius, and has even found a decent Mediterranean place near Fort Myer. 

Life is starting to take on a semblance of normalcy, even if it's juvenile. And having a home to return to every night is giving Jason the stability and consistency he needs to get his own health in order. 

He hasn't gone down or into drop since his time in the hospital, other than the rebound that came two weeks late and bundled him up against a radiator for six hours. He knows he's coming due soon, but he's hopeful that he can stretch it out for another half-month at least. He's dragged his feet successfully for two months before, and whilst that resulted in a bitch of a scene to come up from, he did get a solid two months of workable time. 

It's not that Jason distrusts Tim specifically. He distrusts everyone, really. Especially with something as personal as a scene. But his intermittent symptoms aren't convincing enough to make him seek a dom out yet. He knows he's toeing a line, strutting a tightrope that's tapering off into a thread. He's just not ready to admit defeat yet. 

And in the rational parts of him, Jason knows that it's going to bite him in the ass. So he keeps tabs on his wavering dynamic health and tries to convince himself that he can make it another fifteen days. 

 

* * *

 

Jason experiences his first gutter high four weeks in. 

He'd learnt about gutter highs during his tutelage under Zeljko Goranov, the regional crime lord of Vojvodina. It wasn't an official title. But anyone who knew anyone knew Zeljko Goranov, if not by name, then by his Dvoglavi Pas insignia. Before he'd joined the Ratni Psi, Zeljko had been a combatant in the Krajina War for the RSK. He hadn't climbed any ranks, but by the time the conflict had drawn to a close, the thirty-something-year-old had contacts running the Danube and a secure position as a low-level enforcer with the 'Psi. 

He'd picked up the nickname Dvoglavi Pas over the next four years, establishing himself as Novi Sad's sole dealer. Nothing went through Novi Sad without going past him first. The early and eager who had tried to slide past his radar had experienced the namesake temper of the Two-Headed Dog. 

By the time Jason had nested himself under Zeljko's wing, the crime lord had the practice down to a fine art. Jason had witnessed it first-hand on his fifth day. He'd been eager to throw his weight around, not really to eek out a niche for himself, but more as ballast. He'd wanted to know who was who of the 'Psi, and he'd figured ruffling some feathers was a quick and easy way to thin out the chaff. 

He'd spent most of the night drooling blood onto a pavestone on Krilova through a punctured lung. He kicks himself just thinking about how stupid he'd been. 

Jason had picked a fight with a young dealer named Miroslav Dordevic. He'd chosen him because he was the closest to Jason in age and build, and the obvious choice for first target if he was going to ascend the ranks vertically. Dordevic had been dealing for about three months before Jason had arrived on the scene, and if street dealers were assigned a report card, Dordevic's would have been all As. 

So Jason had picked a fight with him outside Nook, dragging the pair of them onto the roadside and stopping traffic on Miše Dimitrijevića. He'd almost dislocated Dordevic's jaw and broken three of his own knuckles by the time someone had hailed Zeljko. The man had been as calm as a bay when he'd pulled them apart and dragged them off the main street, out of sight of the late evening passersby. 

Jason had been dabbing at his bleeding nose and casting sideways glances at Dordevic when Zeljko had wrapped a meaty hand around the man's jawbone and yanked it out of its socket. Dordevic had folded to his knees with a distorted scream of pain beneath Zeljko's muttered, “.” 

Then he'd stepped his five-foot-nine bulk over the cowering man and Jason had briefly entertained the thought of fleeing. 

He hadn't. And it had been the only smart thing he'd done that night. It must have shown on his face though, because Zeljko's lips had twisted with displeasure and he'd waved a latent hand in Jason's direction as he'd approached. 

“You, new guy,” he'd said in his mother tongue, and Jason hadn't known much Serbian, but his ears were attuned to this. “You've been here five days, and you're gonna pick a fight with my star pupil?” 

“He's a ,” Jason had spat, and tensed for the backlash. It hadn't come immediately. 

Zeljko had watched him through impassive brown eyes while Dordevic had mewled around his dislocated jaw on the ground behind him. Jason's paranoia had been racking up the longer Zeljko had stood there, his gaze flickering down to the injured man and back up to the threat, as if unsure which was going to come at him first. 

It had taken forty-nine seconds, if Jason was counting by the sharp staccato of his wheezing breaths. Then Zeljko's fist had come flying through the distance towards him, and Jason's body had reacted before his mind registered. 

He'd flinched, yanking his hands up and packing his weight down to absorb the blow, and it wasn't until his brain had come online that Jason had realised he'd  _misjudged_. 

Zeljko had slid the shank down under his block and up over his sixth true rib, scraping his sternum and slicing into his chest cavity with the barest prick of pain. It had taken a few seconds of Jason holding the stunned, confused block and Zeljko studying his expression before his body had realised he'd been stabbed. 

It was a pinprick of sharp pain that had spread up the expanse of his left lung like wildfire, and when that had registered, Zeljko had slid back a step and taken the shank with him. 

Oh, it had hurt like a motherfucker, but not in the way Jason had expected. He'd gotten into fist fights before, had received the occasional deep bruise and broken bone. He'd even fractured a bone in his ankle when he'd been very young, so he had a solid grasp on the pain scale. 

This was something else entirely. He'd grappled absently for the source, unable to find any evidence of the wound other than a tiny perforation in his shirt no bigger than a blade of grass. And while he was busy negotiating between his lungs insisting that he was suffocating and his hands reporting that there was _no_  stab wound, Zeljko had taken the sides of Jason's throat into his palms and driven his solar plexus straight down onto his crooked knee. 

When he was done and had proved his point neatly, he'd let Jason slump down onto the pavement and left him to lay there for a few minutes, collecting himself while Zeljko had lit a cigarette. He'd dropped down onto the curb with a low groan, ignoring Jason's panicked wheezes into the coarse autumn-cooled bitumen. 

He'd tapped a few ashes off the butt of his cigarette before murmuring, “You, you're smart.” 

“Don't know what you're talking about,” Jason had attempted to gasp, but between his hard accent and his collapsing lung, he wasn't sure how much of it Zeljko had heard. 

The man had smirked and nodded to himself, taking a long, contemplative drag. “Yes, you're a smart one. Too smart for this shithole. You pick an easy fight on your fifth night, why do that, hmm? Why not just go for Jovan or Vućko?” 

Jason's mind had vaguely supplied the mottled faces of Zeljko's two- and three-ICs. His trembling stomach had clenched violently at the idea. 

Zeljko must have recognised the reaction, because he tipped back his head and laughed, chortling around his cigarette, “See? You're smart. Tell you what-” 

He'd paused then to exhale a cloud of acrid smoke directly into Jason's vicinity, and Jason had spent the next few searing minutes trying to force down his coughs in a desperate attempt to stop the pain ratcheting up in his injured lung. Zeljko had been as patient as the Mother Teresa, smacking what was left of the butt softly between pinched lips as he'd waited for Jason to swallow wetly. 

“I'll tell you what,” he'd repeated into the lull. “You're going to pick a fight with Halász György. We've only got room for one  around here, so if you're going to stay, you're having his spot.” 

It was as close to permission that Jason had gotten. He hadn't voiced a weary affirmation. He'd just focused on the cool concrete beneath his cheek and the pace of his breathing. 

“You take care of him, and then you come find me,” Zeljko had instructed. “Then we'll talk about how you're going to make this up to me.” 

“Yes, sir,” Jason had mumbled into the grit, and Zeljko had smirked and kicked him in the teeth before stomping out his cigarette. 

Jason had had the presence of mind not to make the same mistake again. He'd well and truly learnt his lesson; and he was sure if it lapsed, Zeljko would have gladly marked it out on another punctured lung. Luckily, it hadn't come to that. 

Jason was sitting in what could only be called Zeljko's office. It was a small, retro-fitted bedroom on the second floor of a nondescript apartment in Grbavica. Jason had been counting reds and musing on how a man like Vajfert came to possess such a sybaritic moustache when he'd gotten a call from a low-level dealer in Klisa. Jason had answered with a blunt, “Hej.” and listened through a rattled-off request for an extra dip into Klisa's assigned stash. 

He'd frowned and asked what it was for, and the dealer had fretted over his wording and finally asked if he could top-up his fifth best customer on their third hit of the month. 

Zeljko had been watching him absently over his mid-morning domestic coffee, and he perked at Jason's frown, mumbling, “What is it?” 

“,” Jason had said down the line, then leveraged the phone away from his mouth to say to Zeljko, “Nidžo wants five more grams for his fifth best.” 

“How many hits has he had?” Zeljko asked, which threw Jason. Usually he's asked where Klisa's stock levels were at, or how much coke was circulating the district. 

His frown deepened. “Three.” 

“How long since his last?” 

Jason had repeated the question down the line, and then the answered, “Eight days.” 

Zeljko had nodded at this, muttered, “Give him two.” and gone back to sipping his coffee. 

That had started a small spat, which Jason had swiftly and quickly shut down. He might have been in practice Zeljko's assistant, but that didn't mean any street dealer got to talk to him like a . Then he'd hung up the call and stared at the backs of his hands splayed on the desktop until Zeljko had looked up. 

“You've got a question for me.” 

Jason had hummed his answer, still turning the cogs over in his head. He knew the core of the reason, but the outskirts were fuzzy, shied away from his investigative light whenever he swept over them. Zeljko took pity on him, beckoned him into his confidence from across the tabletop. 

“Ask me why I didn't give him the product.” Jason had. “Because he doesn't need it.” 

“He's Nidžo's fifth best customer,” Jason had pointed out, not to be antagonistic, but because he had the distinct impression that he was still missing the moral of this story. 

Zeljko had shrugged, slumping back in his seat. “He might be Nidžo's fifth best, but he's almost out of dinars. Can't feed a man who can't afford his food, and I don't waste product on starving men.” 

“So why give him two?” 

Zeljko had smiled to himself, set his coffee down and asked Jason. “You ever been high?” 

The answer was no. Jason didn't say it. 

Of course, Zeljko read him anyway, shrugging it off easily. “When you're that regular, you scrape the gutter every week. And when you've been in the gutter for eight days,  _any_  product will get you off rock bottom. That's why men sniff petrol, . So you give him five grams, and he'll want five more in three days time. But he's not at three days - he's at eight days, and he's hungry. He'll take anything. So I give him two. And you know what happens?” 

Jason curled his head in a slow dissent, mulling it over. 

“He gets high.” He said it simply, like that's explanation enough, and when Jason blinked at him, he'd chuckled. “You're showing your stripes, . Why would I give him five grams when he can get high off two? He's happy, I don't waste my product unnecessarily, and he pays for sixty-percent filler.” 

Jason hummed, brows rising with this revelation, and he'd been aware of Zeljko watching him as he had leaned back in his own chair. 

“You ever been up for too long?” Zeljko asked easily, and Jason'd already scoffed and was halfway to an empathetic  _of course_  when he had frozen. Realised that he'd gotten too complacent in playing 2IC to a regional crime lord, and nearly let slip that he's a fucking sub. 

Jason'd been managing his dynamic, of course. It reared its head every other month, just like clockwork, so he'd been dealing with it before anything could get out of hand. He hadn't been able to risk hiring a pro-dom, not in a neighbourhood as small as Novi Sad, and not with a reputation amongst the Ratni Psi. For the last five months he'd been periodically dealing with it by proxy, with a combination of select songs and sensory videos, and a top-up of mostly-stable synth to get him the rest of the way down. It hadn't come up in conversation so far, hadn't needed to. So Jason had kept his dynamic status under wraps and out of prying minds. 

Zeljko'd been watching him, had seen the abject horror and brief panic flash across his features before he could school them, and as Jason had tried to come up with a quick, valid explanation under insurmountable pressure, he'd waved a wrist in Jason's direction and said, “I know you're a sub, .” 

“You don't-” Jason had tried immediately, and Zeljko had sucked his teeth loudly in that way he did whenever he knew someone was about to lie. Jason lapsed into hard, strained silence. 

“You're a sub,” Zeljko affirmed bluntly, turning his coffee cup in its saucer. “I'm adynamic. That's not the point, . I asked if you'd ever been up too long. Because being up for too long is like going through withdrawal. And when you're in the gutter that low, it only takes a small high to send you skyward, yeah?” 

Jason had nodded sullenly. 

Zeljko had nodded in appeasement. “Then you know what a gutter high is.” 

Jason's standing in a coffee shop when it happens, leaning back against the counter where the neatly portioned sugar sachets and wooden stirrers are stored. He's got one headphone in and is scrolling through his feed when his name gets called for his order. 

Jason pushes off the countertop with a cursory raise of his brow, reaching out to take the latte off the eager hands of a rushed barista. She gives him a bright, relieved smile that tugs behind Jason's navel and says earnestly, “Thank you for being so patient. That was so good of you.” 

Jason drops like a hot brick. Spills his steaming coffee all over the service bench and half over himself. Folds literally to his knees in the middle of the crowded cafe, and sinks so deep into subspace that he doesn't even hear the room go dead silent. He's so far down that he doesn't even register the flurry of motion when a sympathetic dom realises what's happened and breaks the stunned static to curl down to his side and tug him back up to his feet. 

He surfaces leaning back against the counter wall, blinking out across a cafe to patrons who are studiously ignoring his gaze. There's a woman sitting beside him on the warm tile, and his headphones have been neatly curled and placed in his lap. That's when Jason finally places what's happened. 

All credit to the dom - she must be a pro at this - because she calmly explains that he's sitting in the middle of a Cherrydale cafe on a sunny June morning, and that gives Jason's reeling, panicked sensibilities all they need to recede back and let him breathe. Her voice is rhythmic and even, pitched to be soothing against his flayed nerves as she talks happily about her three sons and their school projects until Jason's managed to drag himself the rest of the way up. 

When she notices this, she smiles gently and asks how he is. 

“Been better,” Jason answers honestly, and she gives an amused, knowing huff. “How long was I out?” 

“It's only been about five minutes,” she provides, and Jason nods, processing. Probably the shortest spontaneous scene he's had, and he doesn't doubt its due to the fast-acting dom's masterful skills. 

“Thanks for guiding me,” he says, because he doesn't quite know how to thank a stranger for something so intimate. 

“You're welcome,” she says without bravado, and holds out a navy-gloved hand. “I'm Diana.” 

Jason takes it. “Jason. Can I get you a drink?” 

She waves him off with a polite frown. “I got a mocha while I was waiting on you to come up.” She says it so casually that Jason can almost feel ridiculous for being embarrassed. Almost. “You spilt your latte though; we didn't manage to salvage it. I can talk to the baristas and see if they can make up another for you?” 

“No, no, that's fine, I can-” 

Diana puts a firm hand on his shoulder and presses him gently back against the cabinets. Jason's head is spinning anyway from the attempted ascent, so he goes quietly. “Please,” she says, and Jason can read those dom instincts at play in her tight but eager gaze. “Let me.” 

“Okay,” Jason murmurs evenly, because he knows it will help her out of her scene, and he's too lightheaded to do it himself anyway. She beams and rises to her feet to approach the cashier while Jason tucks his headphones into his pocket and tries to clear his head. 

She doesn't walk him home, but only because he insists on it. She does pay for a provolone breakfast bagel “because he needs to refuel”, and presses the brown paper bag into his hand with such assertion that Jason feels obligated to take it. It tastes fucking delicious, and Jason's polished it off before he's even gone two blocks. 

 

* * *

 

Even with the protein top-up, the twenty minute walk back to the apartment takes it out of him. Jason trudges through the front door and slumps onto the sofa face-first. Tim, who is working from home today of all days, is buried in the adjacent armchair with his laptop perched on his knees. He makes a pointed show of not staring, seemingly enthralled by his case. 

“Long day?” he asks loftily, because it's barely ten o'clock. 

Jason disengages from the plush cushions, shimmying onto his back with a groan. His eyelids feel heavier than bricks. “One way to put it,” Jason responds, and Tim looks up at that, a touch of concern painting his brow. 

“Are you alright?” 

Jason is silent for a long fifteen seconds. “I went down in the middle of a cafe.” 

“Oh fuck,” Tim says, and closes his laptop, sitting forward. “Are you okay? I mean, you're up, obviously, right? But you're alright?” 

“Uh, yeah,” Jason answers, waving him off with a slight frown. “There was a dom there, she helped me up. Was super nice and all.” 

“That's Virginia for you,” Tim quips, and rises to his bare feet, crossing into the kitchen. “You want a coffee or something to eat? We've got some strawberries; might be the last good punnet of the season.” 

Jason shakes his head, and doesn't miss the way Tim's lips twist in displeasure. “I had a latte and a bagel. Got all my protein and calcium, like a good kid. Might take you up on the strawberries later though,” he adds on second thought, and that seems to soothe the dual. 

Tim peels away from the fridge and reclaims his armchair, watching Jason. “You sure you're good?” he interjects after a terse moment. 

Jason can't help but huff a laugh. “Scale it back, BBC's Irene Adler.” 

Tim mulls that over for a second, not making the link, before demanding incredulously, “Are you trying to compare me to a fictional dominatrix?” 

“Hmm. You're pretty domineering. Too wide a stretch?” Jason mutters, and glances at Tim's ruffled expression, grinning. “Cut me some slack, I'm dropping.” 

“You're not dropping, you're just an ass,” Tim scoffs, plucking his laptop off the coffee table. 

“Tell me what you really think.” 

“If you weren't tragically ailing, I would.” Jason heaves a pillow over at him. It misses by a foot. “Careful there, you might wear yourself out, and then you'll need some domineering dom to tuck you in bed and feed you chicken soup.” 

Jason flips him the bird, and Tim chuckles. He lets the comfortable quiet linger for a few minutes before venturing, “I wanted to talk to you about a vacation.” 

“Sure,” Tim rejoins easily, without looking up from his laptop. “Where are we going?” 

Jason chews the inside of his cheek, before sighing. “Not you. Just me.” 

Tim glances up, defensive behind a wall of measured restraint. It's a testament to how much their relationship has improved that Tim is willing to hear him out before jumping to conclusions. “Okay. What prompted this?” 

“Just wanted to try a temporary change of scenery,” Jason hedges. “Maybe visit my old stomping grounds.” 

“Whereabouts?” 

“This isn't you trying to work out how you're going to put a tail on me, or track my phone, or any other shitty dom surveillance policy, is it?” 

Tim casts him a deprecating look. “No, it's not. I was going to give you a lift, actually.” 

Jason blinks. He had expected some resistance, maybe even a brief screaming match. He hadn't been prepared for Tim to acquiesce so quickly, but he's going to seize the moment while it lasts. “More likely going to need a flight.” 

Tim spooks, and Jason relaxes, more familiar with this sort of appalled knee-jerk reaction. “How far exactly are you planning on going?” 

“New York, New York,” Jason answers, and braces as Tim's mouth moves, trying to form a protest. “Look, it'll only be for three days. I already searched some flights, and it should cost me about two hundred dollars.” 

Tim wrestles with wanting to say something, and finally spits out, “This is a shitty question, but you're not going to Newark, are you?” 

“You mean, to stow away on an intermodal to Gioia Tauro and live out my old life as a Serbian dairymaid?” Jason asks with a crooked eyebrow and a smirk. “Went well last time.” 

“Answer the question, please.” 

“That _is_ a shitty question,” Jason points out, and Tim withdraws, slumping. Jason sighs, and sits up. “But I get where you're coming from. No, I'm not going to skip country; surprisingly, I like it here. And yeah, I've already thought about my safety, and despite present company's opinion, I can actually take care of myself. I was a Serbian teniente, remember?” 

Tim's eyes slide closed. “I did not just hear you say that to me.” 

“. World's a big place, Tim; avert your naive gaze.” 

“I investigate trafficking rings for a living,” Tim points out testily. “I don't think naive applies to either of us here.” 

Jason shrugs. “Just put me near the bottom of your list. Right after Sreten Jocić. I'm sure they can make up a spare cell for me in Zabela.” 

“You're deflecting.” 

“Sure, but my point stands,” Jason says, and leans his arms across the back of the sofa. “If I can last twelve months with the 'Psi, I can handle a New York mugger. Trust me, I've thought this through.” 

“Then why are you telling me you're taking this vacation, if you're not actually interested in my opinion?” 

Jason shrugs. It's awkward with his arms splayed. “Looking for your blessing, I guess. And just making sure you won't cut a psychotic break when you discover me gone.” 

“You're  _such_ an asshole.” 

“The asshole you decided to kidnap and bring back to America,” Jason points out, and grins at Tim's furious flush. “Yeah, yeah, I know, it's called an 'extradition'. As I said - it'll be three days. I'll have my phone on me, so if you really want to track me you can, but also: don't be a dick. I've already got accommodation planned. I'm just going to do some light sightseeing, take a selfie with Lady Liberty, maybe start a flashdance in Central Station. All that tourist-y crap. And then I'll be back before you know it.” 

Tim sighs heavily. “You're a shit liar. Don't ever play poker. But yeah, you have my blessing, or whatever you're after. Make sure you bring me back a shitty souvenir.” 

“One I-heart-NY t-shirt coming right up,” Jason promises. 

 

* * *

 

The flight's not the worst he's been on, even discounting the thirty-six hour one he'd spent forcibly sedated. He gets an aisle seat, which means he can stretch his legs out, and it almost makes his fidgety five-year-old neighbour bearable. He hits the tarmac at eleven o'clock am, and since he only packed a backpack, he bypasses the carousels and makes straight for the train terminal. 

The AirTrain meanders through and around JFK, and Jason pays his five dollars and departs into the glass-and-steel monolith that is Howard Beach station. He takes the A train, transfers over at Jay Street-Metrotech and spends an hour hunting down a decent Mediterranean restaurant just because he knows he'll find one. Then he pays cash, rides the C-line for 11 stops and then takes a detour around his old neighbourhood, just to get a feel for the place. 

It looks almost exactly the same. Same patchwork houses sewn together in uneven portions. Same brick retaining walls and rickety ironwork railings. If anything, everything's just gotten that shade older, less maintained. It doesn't really phase him. 

Ridge Boulevard is spotted with more upscale abodes, but Jason doesn't really feel at home until he's standing in front of the redbrick monolith on 71st. 

He'd paid a cash advance on the MDU, even managed to get his old place for his three-day stay. He'd dropped nearly fifteen hundred on rent for the month, and the place was objectively a shithole, but fuck if he wasn't glad to see it. 

Jason spends a good five minutes grinning stupidly at the ugly white subway-tile backsplash, the half-assed wood panelled walls and eccentrically narrow doorways. He even lovingly nudges the bent radiator vents with the toe of his boot and admires the London plane making a determined chevaux de frise with the unrelenting, rusted fire escape. 

Then he shucks his backpack and splays out on the blissfully cool hardwood flooring with an arduous but appreciative sigh. He digs his phone out of his pocket and calls Tim. 

He picks up almost immediately. “Hey! How was the flight?” 

“Decent,” Jason responds, blinking up at what could be the beginning of a patch of mildew or just a very persistent crack in the ceiling. “How's sunny Virginia?” 

“Same old,” Tim quips, and Jason can hear the clink of a coffee mug on the low table as he adjusts his position. “You got somewhere good to sleep?” 

Jason hums and shuffles his spine against the wooden floorboards. “You're doing that domineering thing. I've got some guys from craigslist coming to set up a sofa bed for me. And then I'll be set.” 

“You sure you're happy where you are? I can still book you a hotel, it'll take me five minutes to find-” 

“Tim.” 

Jason blinks up at the ceiling and listens to the terse sigh at the other end. “It's super shitty when you assume that me being a decently concerned person automatically makes me an overbearing dom. I seem to recall you asserting that your dynamic wasn't your entire personality.” 

Jason winces at that, because he's not wrong. “Alright, potential truce: I won't call you out on your d-type tendencies if  _you_  start trusting that I can handle myself even from two hundred miles away.” 

“Deal. So I shouldn't point out that you forgot to pack your toothbrush?” 

He lets his eyes slip closed and the laugh reverberate through him. “Fuck. Knew I was forgetting something.” 

“Alright, well, I'll leave you to do your mopey sub thing,” Tim teases, and Jason scowls at the ceiling, but it's half-hearted. “Enjoy New York. I'll check in before you catch your flight back.” 

He spends the next few hours in King's Plaza filling his cart with the homely essentials, and is back in time to greet the sofa delivery guys he'd nabbed on craigslist. He pays them generously in cash and slumps back on the sofa in his bare, empty apartment. 

Jason spots the tail on the second day. He's meandering along Louise Terrace, hands buried in his pockets, when he notices the navy sedan crawling along behind him. He can't see in through the tinted windscreen, but he does memorise the number plate. Call it a hunch from his cartel days, but he's not going to hang around to find out which organisation these guys work for. He cuts across a yard and loses them in the maze of grid streets. 

It's not until nine thirty that night that they finally show themselves. Jason's descending the back stairs and rounding the corner into the side alley with a trash bag in hand when they jump him from behind. 

It's two men in nondescript casual clothing. The taller of the two shoves him further into the alley, beyond sight of the neighbours and the orange glow of the dying streetlight. Jason goes easily, tightens his fists in the long sleeves of his shirt, and tries to estimate if he can leg it up the chain link fence that closes off the other end of the alley. With a decent head start, it's possible; but he's going to need to incapacitate them both. 

The taller pushes him back up against the brick wall of his building, and he drops the trash bag to free up his hands. The fight goes out of him when he recognises the other assailant. 

“Took you long enough,” Jason mutters, and tries to peel himself off the brick. The taller scowls and presses him back against it with a warning hand, stooping to frisk him. Jason sighs and keeps his shoulders snug against the brick. “Didn't spot you this time.” 

“We parked around the corner,” the other responds, distracted as he scans the entrance to the alley, as if concerned that they'll be interrupted. Jason tries to read his face, but at this angle there's too much shadow. 

“That'll do it,” Jason quips, and glares when the taller of the pair knocks his arms up to shoulder height. “Want to go a little easier there?” 

“Hold still,” he answers in a blunt monotone, and goes back to pressing flat palms to Jason's sides. 

“Trust me, if I was packing, you'd know by now. Certainly wouldn't have let you jump me in my own alley.” 

“Still full of bravado, aren't you?” the other says, and retreats back to face him. 

Jason smirks, but its restrained, dulled by melancholy. “Not nearly as much of an asshole as I was, let me tell you. You on duty?” he adds on second thought. 

“Just clocked off,” the man responds, and Jason hums to himself. The taller finally withdraws, satisfied that he's not carrying any weapons, and Jason lowers his hands. 

“Running PC now?” 

“Something like that,” the man responds evenly, looking him up and down. “You look the same. I don't know why I thought you wouldn't, but you do.” 

He shrugs, and Jason reciprocates. “You look the same too. Been a while.” His gaze travels to the other man in the alley, and pauses on his lanky form with the barest hint of animosity. “A long while.” 

The man glances over at his taller partner, and gestures absently. “Victor, Jason. Jason, Victor.” 

“Got yourself a new partner, huh?” 

“Had to,” Roy retorts bluntly. “My old one fell off the face of the earth.” 

Jason feels his anger like a punch to the gut. Swallows hard beneath the pressure of his scowl. 

“Want to tell me where you've been for a year and a half?” 

“I transferred out,” Jason begins. 

“Yeah, I know that part,” Roy snaps, and he looks hurt beneath his bluster. “Going for an FBI position, right? You were studying to get the fast-track transfer, last I heard.” 

Jason hunches his shoulders against the dropping temperature and the arctic conversation. “Well, I got it. I got the FBI transfer. Just didn't expect them to transfer me five thousand miles out on my first assignment.” 

Roy's brows rise at that, the fury washing out of him. “What?” 

Jason shrugs and peels himself away from the wall, looking at his feet. “They sent me to Serbia, right off the bat. Assigned me to a drug cartel.” 

“Well fuck me,” Roy breathes. “How'd it go?” 

Jason barks a strangled laugh, and Roy must read the latent panic in his gaze, because he softens at the sight. “Shitcreek,” he says haughtily. “Got my ass handed to me fifth day. Nearly outed myself to a Serbian drug lord.” Roy winces, and Jason's reminded that his ex-partner is as much a sub as he is. It's this reminder that makes him change tact. “But I got to fuck up some Albanian gangsters, so it evens out in the end.” 

Roy snorts. “Sounds like a ride. So you've been in Serbia this whole time? When'd you make it back?” 

“About two months ago,” Jason replies. 

“Thought I'd have run across you by now, then,” Roy muses, puzzled. “I mean, New York's big, but not between cops.” 

“I haven't been in New York,” Jason explains, and stoops to hoist the abandoned trash bag into the skip. It disappears with a loud clatter. “Been rooming in DC. Only got back to New York yesterday.” 

“Change of scenery?” 

“Uh, yeah. Well, no.” Jason bites his lip and leans back against the brickwork, crossing his arms over his chest. “Half the reason was wanting to visit home. How's my old man?” 

“He's due for re-appointment in September. Word is there's an up-and-coming due to challenge him, but when has your father ever _not_ been a shoe-in?” 

“Hang on,” Victor interrupts, his gaze swinging from Roy to Jason. “This guy's the son of the Commissioner?” 

Willis wasn’t technically his father. But he beat the empty bed beside his in the orphanage that Jason had taken to talking to in the dark morning hours, when he couldn’t seem to sleep and couldn’t concentrate enough to read. The guy was head of the New York Police Department, which had come with a handful of perks growing up. Namely long benefit galas that Jason spent shaking hands with hundreds of old white guys and wincing at perfumed ladies who would pinch his cheeks and coo over what a heartbreaker he’d grow up to be. 

But the clean, tidy house and the very decent schooling hadn’t gone unappreciated. Jason had been falling behind in his fourth grade studies when Willis and his beaming wife Catherine had plucked Jason out of the orphanage in what he now suspected had been a publicity stunt to pull the paparazzi off Catherine’s recently unearthed drug habit. 

Jason’d made the most of his upbringing, really applied himself. And he’d been ten when Steph had come into the picture, a bubbly, bright blond-haired little girl to complete the perfectly staged family photographs at press conferences. At first he’d been concerned that Willis and Catherine were going to shuffle him off to boarding school, or return him to the orphanage like a faulty appliance from a Black Friday bin sale. But then he’d actually gotten to know the eager-eyed hurricane that was Stephanie Brown-Todd. 

“Yeah,” Jason responds noncommittally. “But don't tell anyone. I might actually manage to get out of here without having to hear all his great and numerous feats of bravery. Did you know he started as a beat cop in the 44th? Great, great man,” Jason adds with mock-awe, nodding for emphasis. Roy scoffs. 

“And you wonder where the asshole part of you comes from.” 

“Hey, I'm nothing like my dad,” Jason interjects sternly, and Roy looks dubious. “Besides, we're different shitheads. He's the strong, silent and abusive type, and I'm the skip-state-to-Pennsylvania type. Very important distinction.” 

Victor raises a crooked brow at that statement, glancing over at Roy, who waves him off. “Don't even ask. It's a long and tumultuous family affair. And we shouldn't really be bad-mouthing the Commissioner in his own city.” 

“That's why I went over the border,” Jason quips with a tight grin. “It's easy to talk smack in Pennsylvania; it's practically a religion down there.” 

“So what's the other half of the reason?” Roy cuts him off, and Jason's reminded just how perceptive Roy can be. At how good he is at letting you run your tangent, at thinking you've made it out of the woods, and then dropping the thumbtack back into the figurative conversational map. “Lord knows you wouldn't still be camping out in this shithole if you'd made up with your father. So what's the other reason for the visit upstate?” 

“Needed to draw some attention,” Jason hedges, and runs his tongue along his molars to buy himself some time while he chooses his words. “Thought maybe my superiors had forgotten about me.” 

“Your superiors?” Roy asks, frowning. “I thought they'd have pulled you out of Serbia.” 

Jason's jaw clenches. “So did I. But uh, no, I ended up getting picked up by another agent. Or, not really an agent - a consultant. Long story.” 

Something slides into place, and Roy's eyes blow wide. “Are… are you saying they didn't extract you? Haven't extracted you?” 

“Not as far as I know,” Jason mumbles quietly, and rubs his arms absently. “I don't think they even know I'm in America yet.” 

“Did you break contact?” 

“The point wasn't to have contact,” Jason explains with a sigh. “I didn't even have scheduled reports. They wanted me in there as soon as possible, and they wanted radio silence. Didn't trust the Serbians not to uncover me, I guess. Told me they'd extract me when the time was right. When I got sent to- When I got taken out of Serbia, I thought I was being extracted. Let them beat the snot out of me, because I thought, makes it look more realistic, right?” 

Roy's watching him closely, his jaw tight, and Jason can't stand to meet his gaze, so he slides down the wall to the pavement and stares at his crossed arms. 

“I, uh, I ended up in a trafficking ring. The Serbians must have worked out I wasn't kosher and thrown me to the dogs. If I'd known- if I'd suspected, I would have put up more of a fight. But I thought…” 

“How long did you spend with the ring?” Roy asks softly. 

Jason has to swallow a few times before he can answer. “Four months, give or take.” 

“Fucking hell,” Roy hisses, and there's horror in his tone. “Are you shitting me?” 

“Like I said, I thought it  _was_  the extraction. And then I thought it was part of the long game, right? Keep my cover intact and make a secondary extraction, in case they needed to put me back in. But uh, instead I got picked up by this FBI consultant who has no clue I'm UC.” 

“So have you reported back yet?” Roy asks, and Jason shakes his head. 

“They haven't contacted me. So I've kept my cover name. Lied to their own consultant, too. He thinks I'm a tourist that got wrapped up in a cartel operation and overstayed their welcome. Even lied about my birthday, which I'm sure is going to bite me in the ass soon.” 

“You haven't told him yet?” 

“Can't tell whether I should. As far as I know, I'm still under. Wasn't sure I should blow my cover until I was contacted. And they haven't contacted me.” 

“So you came to New York to tip them off?” 

Jason shrugs. “Bought the ticket under my real name. Figured it would show up in their system at some point and someone might realise I'm still out in the field.” 

Roy's silent for a long while, before he asks softly, “You going to see your mom?” 

Jason flinches. He knows Roy’s not talking about Catherine. “Wasn't sure if I should. I just, I don't know. I don't want to blow this all on some sentimentality, right? I should wait it out until they contact me. Only it's been eighteen months and I haven't heard  _shit_. And I'm one fucking hour from my parents,” Jason snarls, his volume rising with his fury as he stabs a finger eastward. “Which is the closest I've been in nearly three fucking years. And I just,  _I don't know what they want me to do_.” 

He sucks in a hard and sharp breath, notices that his hands are shaking and shoves them into his armpits. Roy casts a glance over at Victor and asks softly, “Give us a minute?” 

The taller man peels out of the alley, and Roy drops down onto the pavement beside him. They sit in silence while Roy picks over his words and Jason tries to press back the tightness in his throat. 

“You should probably go see her,” he says softly, and a choked sob bubbles up past Jason's lips. He glares at the pavement, and Roy sighs, tipping his head back. “You do anything for your birthday?” 

Jason thinks back to mid-August, back early in his jaunt with the drug cartel. His mind flicks back through his memories like a calendar until they settle on the hazy Thursday with distinct reluctance. He remembers watching two of Zeljko's grunts drag a rogue dealer out of one of their apartments in front of a batch of newbies, reluctantly supervising as they'd dumped the mewling man at Jason's feet. Remembers how the man had pleaded and begged over the negligible hundred-and-fifty-thousand dinar he'd been skimming off the top of his sales, how he'd insisted that he wouldn't ever do it again, and how Jason had had to remind him with a blank, neutral expression that Dvoglavi Pas didn't give out second chances. Remembers his wailing, the way his screams had reverberated through the horrified newbies and brought Jason's lunch all the way back up into his throat. Remembers painting the first toilet bowl he'd come across with his last few meals while images of the man's mangled body peeled across the backs of his eyelids. Remembers how the man had stopped trying to beg him for help after the first few blows, and how one of the grunts had clapped him over the shoulder afterwards, telling him that's he'd done well for his first beatdown, and then insisting that it was his shout when they'd dropped more than twice that dinar on celebratory drinks. 

“No,” Jason answers firmly. 

“You wanna get a drink then?” Roy asks. “If you decide you want to see your parents, I can give you a lift 'round-” 

“No,” Jason answers, his tone blunt. “I'll get a drink with you. But I'm not going around there. I don't want to see him right now.” 

“Fair enough,” Roy sighs, and pushes laboriously to his feet. “Want to get your coat then? I'll get Victor to bring the car around.” 

“Sounds as good a plan as any. Where are we going?” 

“Thought Slick Willie's might do the trick.” 

Jason's memory conjures images of exposed brick and a sleek wooden bartop, of thick-cut chips and burgers you couldn't wrap your jaw around. He smiles despite himself, and Roy knocks him on the shoulder with a smile of his own, extending his hand to help Jason up. 

“There we go. Gotta make your visit home memorable, right?” 

 

* * *

 

“You wanna get out of the house?” Tim asks. They're lounging on the sofas on a surprisingly cool Thursday afternoon in mid-June. Jason's flicking through an old John Grisham novel circa the nineties, and Tim's scrolling disinterestedly through a stream of Netflix originals. 

Jason's been back for six days, and Tim's been putting off mentioning his brief sojourn for the better part of the week. Jason can feel it hovering between them, unspoken and unacknowledged. “What did you have in mind?” 

“Thought we could go somewhere woodland,” Tim muses aloud. “There’s a place I used to go to do some photography. Maybe we could catch up with my sister for dinner afterwards. She's been nagging me to introduce you for weeks. Makes a mean spread, too, if that's convincing at all.” 

Jason smiles to himself, and bookmarks his page. “Sounds like it could be eventful. She have any good embarrassing childhood stories of you on tap?” 

Tim looks up from the text he's halfway into firing off to her. “Don't joke about that. She's brutal.” 

“Perfect.” 

“Jackass.” 

Tim sets up a dinner date for them while Jason goes to find his coat. 

It's only a twenty minute drive, and they spend it in amicable silence, the quiet murmuring of afternoon radio purring in the ambience. Tim takes them on a confident and meandering detour out of Arlington, and parks around the corner from Wildwood Park. A simple two-plank wooden sign tells Jason as much, and he loiters in the carpark, casting his gaze around at the treeline and the meandering bitchumen pathways. 

Tim throws him a grin, and leads the way into the sparse forest. 

They take a leisurely stroll through the grounds, pausing here and there to admire certain trees or particularly brazen wildlife. Everything's cast in a soft green light from the overhanging canopy, and it darkens the rocky creek that slices through the park to a deep onyx. The background of trickling water is soothing, and they linger on a newly-installed wooden bridge to watch a pair of aspen leaves chase each other down the stream, weaving around boulder outcrops and dismembered branches. 

Tim seems to be at least partially familiar with the dirt tracks in this forest, because they soon come across an outpost of wooden benches lining the creek, and Jason slides onto the nearest next to Tim and watches the water flow. 

And maybe it's the soft sunlight sparkling off the creek, or the deep smell of wet tree roots, or just how this whole forest reminds him of something intrinsically homely, but suddenly Jason's feeling somewhat choked up. He clears his throat inconspicuously and fixes his gaze on the undulating stream at their feet. 

“Something on your mind?” Tim asks gently. Jason lets himself level out a little before he answers. 

“We never-” Jason begins, and then swallows uncomfortably. Tim stares, unable to discern where his agitation is coming from. “We never,  _met._ Properly, I mean.” 

“Oh,” Tim says, stupidly, and then, “ _Oh_. Is, is that something you want?” 

Jason blinks at him. Then his lips twitch in an aborted attempt at a smile before succumbing to the buzz of nerves in his chest. “I mean, we didn't exactly meet under positive circumstances. So yeah, I'd like to meet you. Normally, properly.” 

“Okay,” Tim says, and does some quick thinking. “Alright. I'm going to go this way,” he announces, and points down the path, in the direction they'd come from. “And you can go whichever direction you want. And if we stumble across each other, then we'll go from there. If you get lost, double back to the car, and I'll head back to find you after twenty minutes or so. Sound like a plan?” 

Jason smiles, and its small, but Tim grins like an absolute madman. Jason has to remind himself that Tim is stupidly sentimental about a lot of things and he really shouldn't read too much into this. “Yeah, sounds good.” 

Tim disappears back over the bridge, and Jason lingers on the bench a few minutes longer before he picks himself up and starts meandering up the bank, enjoying the soft rustle of leaves overhead and the sharp chatter of birds milling in the brush around him. 

He heads north-east, putting the setting sun behind his left shoulder, and picks his way through the sparse brush that runs parallel to a walking track. Stops to read about the Wolftrap Creek Stream Restoration Program that was completed early last year. 

He's crouched beside a vine of five-leaved clusters, trying to discern if it's a crop of virginia creeper or poison ivy, and admiring the bright purplish-blue hue of the tiny berries when Tim finds him. Hesitates on approaching him before finally ambling over. 

When he finally makes it near enough that Jason glances up at him, he looks surprisingly nervous, a small timid smile lingering on his lips. “Hey,” is all he says, and hunches his shoulders bashfully. 

A corner of Jason's mouth hitches up, the mirth warming his chest. From his crouch he returns, “Hey, stranger.” 

Tim swallows down a beaming grin and extends his hand in the perfect imitation of a properly raised Virginian schoolboy. “I'm Tim.” 

It doesn't feel inane or childish, like Jason half-expected it would. It feels genuine, important. Jason takes his hand as he rises to his feet. “Jason. It's good to meet you.” 

“Same from here. Got a craving for blueberries?” Tim enquires, and points to the crop beside Jason. 

He follows its direction and chuckles to himself. “Sure, if you want to be poisoned. If it is a virginia creeper, then you're in for a good lethal dose of food poisoning and kidney damage.” 

Tim pales, brow creasing apologetically. “Ah, maybe not then.” 

Jason sticks his hands in his pockets, shaking off the growing chill now that the sun is dipped on the horizon. He rocks back on his heels and casts his gaze around at the thinning patrons. “I am hungry though. Thought I might take you up on that homemade dinner.” 

“Happy to oblige,” Tim quips, and gestures back to the path, lets Jason lead them back to the carpark at a slow and steady pace. 

They don't get back in the car, as Jason had expected. They cut through the brush onto Woodford, and follow the road for ten minutes until Tim turns up the drive towards an obtuse looking house with a broad bay window. 

From the mint-green-accented porch, the house looks like it's glowing, bathed in the last rays of the dying sun. A woman with her hair looped up in a professional bun answers the door, beckoning them over the stoop with a beaming smile. 

She offers her hand to Jason once she's hung up their coats. “I'm Barbara, Tim's adoptive sister. Nice to meet you finally.” 

“You too,” Jason replies, and follows her past the dazzling white stairs into a plush minimalist lounge room. There's a mezzanine balcony overhead, and the small family dining table on the far side has been meticulously set already. 

Barbara leads them through to the kitchen, where a woman with a head of blond hair is breaking the thin crust in a bubbling dutch oven and stirring around a healthy serving of beans and slightly charred meat. The room is flooded with the rich aroma of more spices than Jason can name, and he hesitates in the dining room to watch. 

Tim pulls up a breakfast stool immediately, leaning elbows on the countertop while Barbara steps into the kitchen to lend her a hand. Jason takes his cue and joins Tim at the counter. 

“Jason, this is my fiancée Dinah,” Barbara introduces, and transplants a loaf of sourdough onto an oven tray. “Hope you like cassoulet.” 

“No complaints here,” Jason replies amiably, and Tim grins. 

“Babs makes an amazing cassoulet,” he advises sagely. “She and I seem to have taken on Alfred's culinary talent more than our other siblings.” 

Barbara snorts, and Dinah looks mock-offended. “This is  _my_ cassoulet we're eating tonight,” she interjects in a hurt tone. “I spent six hours slaving over this dutch oven, and I'm not letting Babs take all the credit.” 

Tim laughs, and Jason falls into an easy smile. Barbara crosses the tile to peck Dinah on the cheek. “Let me know when you want me to warm the sourdough.” 

“Shouldn't take much longer than forty-five minutes, an hour tops,” Dinah informs her, and returns the pot to its shelf in the oven. 

“In that case,” Barbara sings, and leans her elbows against the other side of the counter. “Drinks?” 

“Are we doing chardonnay or whiskey sours?” Tim asks with broad excitement, and Jason winces at the suggestion. Barbara seems to share his reaction. 

“Chardonnay, definitely. I think I still have a bottle left over from my keynote at the Spring VACP Convention.” 

“What is it?” 

Barbara digs around in a cabinet to the side, calling back, “A Russian River Valley.” 

“That'll do,” Tim concedes easily, and plucks four glasses from the cabinet above his head. 

“So what do you two do for work?” Jason asks once he's been handed his wineglass and Barbara is leaned back against the corner of the counter, next to the sink. 

She finishes her sip and says, “I run a joint-practice with five other psychologists. I used to specialise in pharmaceutical psychiatry, but now I'm more invested in dynamic psychology.” 

“Sounds interesting,” Jason hedges, and she shrugs easily. 

“I do a lot of work with the local universities. We're doing studies into the effectiveness of certain therapeutic techniques on different dynamics. It's a way to challenge the preconceived conventions which traditionally benefited mostly doms and d-leaning duals. It's fulfilling work. I can't complain.” 

“What about  you, Dinah?” 

“I'm a surgeon by trade,” she answers, rolling down her cuffed sleeves, and scoops up her glass from the counter. “I work at Inova. It's only ten minutes away, so I'm usually on-call for the pediatrics unit. It means Barbara and I often have conflicting work-life schedules, but it's nice to have a night to spend with friends.” 

“Oh, so you're both in the medical profession,” Jason summises, with an inkling of surprise. It must colour his tone, because Barbara smiles. 

“Don't worry, our other three siblings took to criminal justice professions like Tim. Or, I suppose he took after them.” 

Tim rolls his eyes, lets that pass him by. “Dick's an Assistant Director with the Bureau,” he explains. “Cass is a SWAT officer with MDSP, and Damian is a US Marshal based here in Arlington.” 

“Ah, so you're the outlier,” Jason points out to Barbara. 

“Sure, you could say that,” Barbara agrees easily, and shares a pointed look with Tim, who glares at her. Then she straightens, brushing the moment off. “Well, we know Tim's consulting with the FBI and the DA's office, but what about you? What do you do for a living?” 

“Ah,” Jason says, and chuckles softly to himself. “I'm currently between jobs.” 

Barbara doesn't let up. “What did you used to do?” she asks, and when Jason hesitates she points out, “You're twenty-seven or so, right? You must have worked or studied up until now.” 

“Twenty-eight today, actually,” Tim confirms, and Jason starts at the reminder. 

Dinah's brows rise. “It's your birthday? Damn, I would have made a cake or a pie to celebrate.” 

Jason smiles uneasily and waves her concern off. “That's fine, I'm not used to making a big deal of my birthday anyway. When you have to attend fifty million galas as a kid, you tend to find you get sick of cake really quickly.” 

“Spotlight family?” Dinah murmurs, sympathetic, and Jason nods. “I thought Babs and her psych conferences were torture enough.” 

Jason shrugs. “You get used to it.” 

“I’ve got a friend who constantly complains about all the benefits she was forced to attend as a kid,” Tim interjects, and takes a sip of his chardonnay. “If you get her started, she can complain for  _hours_ , but I’ve yet to meet either of her parents outside of a fundraiser. I've got a running theory that they’re paid actors.” 

Jason snorts, and takes another swig from his own glass. Barbara sets her wineglass down on the stone countertop. “So if you don't have a specific profession, do you have an area of specialty?” 

“My family tends to lean towards criminal justice,” Jason admits. “Police department, government legislature, legal profession. That sort of thing.” 

Barbara seems satisfied with that admission, because she turns her focus on Tim. “You called Bruce recently?” 

“Christ, you're a font of interrogative questioning tonight, aren't you?” Tim bemoans, and Jason hides a smile behind another sip of wine. 

The conversation is easy and light, and it continues over to the dinner table, where Jason takes the seat beside Tim and opposite Barbara. Dinah serves the cassoulet with a flourish, and the bowls are distributed around the small table. Tim swipes a slice of sourdough and hones right in on the steaming dish. They lapse into eager silence while Jason savours the char-grilled chicken and sausage. 

They're picking at the last of the bread and on their third respective glasses of chardonnay when Tim asks Barbara, “So who's up next on the obligatory family birthday get-together list? We've got a fair break until my birthday, and I just want to get my ducks in a row so I have excuses on tap when I need them.” 

Barbara smirks and swills her chardonnay contemplatively. “I think I’m next, aren’t I? September 24th? I know Cass and Dick aren't til next year, so it's just you and me, I think. Oh, and Steph.” 

The name slices through Jason like a shard of ice, pooling cold and dry in the base of his stomach. He's just immensely grateful he's not holding his glass when she says it, or Jason's sure he'd be picking fragments out of his fingertips right now. 

“I always forget she's a Scorpio,” Tim muses aloud, setting his empty glassware aside. 

“Steph?” Jason repeats with a frown, the name cumbersome on his tongue. “Steph who?” 

“Stephanie Brown,” Tim responds, picking at the last dregs of his cassoulet. 

“She's a friend of ours,” Barbara elaborates kindly, and Jason can feel his pulse rumbling in his ears. “She works with the FBI. She's been undercover for almost a year now, but her contract is due to come up in September, so we should get to see her soon.” 

Jason can barely hear her, and he must cut her off when he demands, “Steph Brown? Like Stephanie Todd?” because Barbara peters off into a concerned silence and even Tim is alerted by his tone. 

“Yeah,” he answers slowly, eyeing Jason. “That's right.” 

Jason can't breathe. His lungs are too tight; there's something wrapped around his chest. He shoves back from the table with a sharp inhale and gets his ankles tangled in the chair legs as he makes to stand. Tim follows him upright, grabbing his arms to steady him. 

“Woah, hey,” he says, upset by Jason's blatant distress. “What's wrong? What is it?” 

“I need you to take me to her,” Jason manages to force out past his swollen-shut throat. 

“She's- she's in Europe, she's undercover,” Tim answers, and panics when Jason lets out a sharp mewl, his hands tightening as Jason sways and the room spins. “Hey, alright, okay. Let's just sit down and take a minute.” 

Jason's already shaking his head. It makes the room tilt dangerously, and he becomes aware that Barbara and Dinah are on their feet on the other side of the table, concerned. “I need you to call her, right now,” Jason gasps. 

“She's underc-” Tim tries to impress, and flinches when Jason snaps, “Right now.” 

“Jason,” Barbara says, her voice even and smooth. It presses against the inside of his skull, lathes the heat there like a cool wash of water, and he closes his eyes against the onslaught of a brewing migraine, stifling a groan. “You're having an anxiety attack, you should sit down. Let us take care of you, and Tim can call Steph, okay?” 

“You don't get it,” he slurs, and tenses when Tim tries to lead him towards the sofa. He seizes Tim's arm, snapping his attention back to Jason's wild eyes. “I'm not- I can't- My name isn't Haywood.” 

Tim blinks, and Jason watches the words slide right over his head, unmarked. “You need to sit down,” he says firmly. 

Jason growls. “You're not listening. My name isn't Haywood, it's not Jason Haywood. I lied. It's Todd.” 

“You really need to calm down,” Tim mutters, more to himself than Jason, and turns to ask his sister's help. “Babs-” 

Jason breaks through his firm grasp with a flurry of motion, seizing a fistful of Tim's shirt. Their eyes lock, frantic and shocked. “My name is Jason Todd,” Jason repeats slowly, making sure Tim is drinking this in. “I'm a UC with the Bureau. Stephanie Brown is my sister. I need you to call her now.” 

“You're… with the Bureau?” Tim repeats, hesitating on the precipice of suspended disbelief. 

“Now,” Jason yelps, and Tim's spurred into motion, shoulders hunching as he fumbles for his phone. 

“Okay, okay, I'm calling her. I'm calling her right now,” he emphasises, and Jason lets him lead him on weak legs to the sofa, lets Tim press him down into the cushions as he turns away to make a call. 

Barbara materialises in his place, and folds Jason over gently, until his head is between his knees. “Deep breaths,” she instructs calmly, a firm hand on his shoulder. Jason tries to obey. “That's it, in, out. You're doing great.” 

All Jason can think of is his parents' big empty Colonial in Oyster Bay, of the immaculate bedroom with the half-bay window and the deep purple signature wall and their initials carved into the back of the fireplace mantel, up in the chute where their father wouldn't find them. His mind is consumed with years spent playing cops and robbers in the small grove of trees on the west side and the way Steph had looked coming down the stairs on her prom night, with a chrysanthemum in her hair. She’d looked more nervous than she had been explaining to their incensed father why they were so late home from playing with the neighbourhood kids when she had been eight and Jason bad been twelve and neither of them had owned a wristwatch. 

And he's terrified - wholly, irrationally, inconsolably  _terrified_  - that the last tangible memory Steph's going to have of him and he of her, is of him throwing his duffel in the back of his truck and gunning it all the way to Pennsylvania with miles of animosity between them.  

She wasn't supposed to go to Europe. She wasn't supposed to join the FBI and go on an undercover mission and put herself in more jeopardy than Jason can bear to think about right now. She was supposed to stay in New York and get her juris doctor from Columbia and become the best fucking prosecutor the state's ever known. Maybe even make Supreme Court Justice someday. Not die in some drive-by shootout on some slighted gang's turf where nobody knows who she is or the fucking amazing things she's capable of. 

Jason can't even remember the last words he said to her in person, is only left with the distinct, gut wrenching certainty that they were selfish and shortsighted and  _not fucking true_  and he just wants to be able to tell her that. To look her in the eyes and honest-to-God apologize and now there's a chance he never will. 

His mind is fracturing, stabbing sharp, jagged memories into his sensory. Jason can't feel anything past the ice floating in his stomach and the burning in his lungs. Every breath he sucks in gets caught in his throat and his skull is swimming with lightheadedness. 

“Okay, yeah, you're in freefall,” Barbara states bluntly, and shimmies around until she's facing him head on. 

Jason doesn't like the sound of that. He's heard about freefall, of course. Every sub has. It's the heightened, knee-jerk reaction to hyper-stressful situations that sends a sub into an involuntary down scene. It's damage control, essentially, and Jason wants no part of it right now. 

“Jason,” Barbara says, and repeats his name until he forces himself to focus on her. “I'm going to put you down now.” 

“Like fuck you are,” he grits, meets her gaze with a glare that she stares down, unflinching. 

Barbara's made of stronger stuff. “I'll explain again; you're going into freefall. You either need to let me get you down, or you're going to pass straight into drop.” 

Jason bares teeth, sucking air through them. “You're not putting me down.” 

Barbara draws in a calming breath. “I'm not doing this without your permission, Jason. But I don't want to see you suffer when we can help you.” 

“Get Tim then,” Jason hisses, and Barbara blinks. 

“You'd let Tim put you down?” 

Jason moans and shakes off a particularly poignant splice of sense-memory, his skin suddenly unbearably itchy. “He's done it before, hasn't he?” 

“I-” Barbara begins, and then catches herself. She shoots up to her feet, barking, “Tim.” 

He's halfway into a sentence, but he turns to face her, his gaze flickering down to Jason. He looks frantic beneath his plastered layer of calm. “They put me through to her Department,” Tim rushes. “I'm trying to get to someone who can call her in.” 

“You need to put him down.” 

Tim nearly drops the phone, fumbling it at the last minute. When he's recovered, he stares at the pair of them. “What?” 

“Get  _over_  here,” Jason grits, and Tim practically flings the phone in Barbara's general direction. She catches it and retreats to the other side of the room to take the call. 

Tim's on his knees in front of Jason in the blink of an eye, hovering uncertainly. “Okay, okay, just relax,” he stammers, and Jason peels his eyelids back to stare him down dubiously. That seems to drill some sense into Tim, because he straightens, squares his shoulders, and evens his tone out. “Breathe for me,” he orders gently. 

It thrums through Jason like a strike of lightning, igniting his nerves and dissipating the cloying cloud of doubt that swirls through his pores. He sucks in his first full lungful of air, holds it for three hard seconds, and exhales. 

Tim's hand is on his knee, massaging the bones there. “That's good, that's really good. Keep breathing just like that. You're doing so well.” 

It's a salve on Jason's frayed cognizance, and he bows under the weight of it, the tension rolling out of his shoulders as he slumps over his knees and  _breathes_. 

“That's perfect. Just keep doing that for me. In and out, nice and steady. You're so good at this.” 

Jason can feel himself sinking under Tim's praise, wrapping himself up in his earnest tone as he centres himself and begins to slide down. Jason's only clinging to the cliff's edge by his nails, but he's not willing to let this one go until he's certain. “You're gonna bring her back, right?” 

“Absolutely,” Tim says evenly, without hesitation, and Jason believes him. “Barbara is on the phone as we speak. She's talking to the Bureau and we're telling them to organise Steph's extraction right now. We're going to bring her home for you, Jason.” 

The relief is what takes him under completely. Washes over him like a wave and takes him so deep that Jason lets his eyes slip closed and just floats. It's a space of absolute trust and capability, and Jason bathes in it, lets his mind spread out like oil on the water until it's spread so thin he wonders absently if it will ever come together again, if he'll ever come up. 

He does, because Tim's got this, knows exactly what he's doing, and somewhere in the hyper-emotive subconscious-driven realm of subspace, Jason realises that Tim putting him down isn't as bad as he thought it was going to be. 

Tim brings him up by asking him to list the ingredients, one by one, used to make sarma. Interjects softly and gently to ask for specifications and alternatives, and Jason gives a detailed recount. He consciously checks in around the time he's detailing how to fold a cabbage leaf to keep the seam intact, but Jason doesn't stop reciting the recipe until he's explained how to pour the tomato sauce. 

Then he exhales a long breath he hadn't realised he's been holding, and let's his eyes focus until he can discern Tim's form. 

He's shuffled to Jason's side during the scene, and is leaning his shoulder against the sofa, facing Jason as he lounges. There's a calm, fulfilled expression on his face, and he stirs when he realises Jason is fully up. 

“Hey,” he says softly, and his voice croaks slightly from overuse. He offers Jason a slow, tired smile. “With us now. How're you feeling?” 

“Better,” Jason answers honestly. Now that he's actually looking around the room, he can see they're alone, hear the distant chime of Barbara and Dinah moving around in the kitchen. “How long was I down?” 

“I'm going to lie and tell you it was no time at all,” Tim responds, and continues before Jason can interrupt, “Only so you don't start working yourself up again. If you ask me tomorrow, I'll answer you honestly. All you need to know right now is we've talked to the Department and they're working on it. Is that okay?” 

Jason sighs, let's the small tendrils of remaining tension slip off him. “Yeah, that's good. That's really good. Thank you.” 

“Anytime,” Tim replies easily but earnestly. Jason feels like the gratitude is radiating off him, and Tim must feel some of it, because he softens into a pleased smile. 

There's a pang of guilt that crackles through the gratitude, and Jason's very aware that a lot has just happened between them - both during and before the scene - and that he's going to have to actually address that with Tim eventually. 

But right now he's yawning, and his eyelids feel like two-tonne weights. And Jason can't think of anything other than crawling into a bed and stepping out of reality for a few blissful hours. 

Tim's more in-tune than he thinks, because he pulls to his feet and helps Jason up slowly, let's him work the stiffness out of his joints. “Barbara's got a spare room downstairs you can sleep in. Come on, I'll show you.” 

Jason nods blearily, winds fingers into Tim's shirt, and trusts him to lead him where he needs to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translation notes:**
> 
> Ne priznaj je borba koju ćete osvojiti (Serbian) = Don’t concede a fight you know you’ll win 
> 
> Kukavica (Serbian) = Coward 
> 
> Stranac (Serbian) = Foreigner 
> 
> Ućuti (Serbian) = Shut up 
> 
> Slabić (Serbian) = Pushover 
> 
> Mlađi (Serbian) = Junior 
> 
> Odrastati (Serbian) = Grow up


	4. Complicate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter tags:**
> 
> i. Mentioned past abuse, drug references, mentioned homophobia  
> ii. No tags apply.  
> iii. No tags apply.  
> iv. No tags apply.  
> v. Implied past sexual abuse, mentioned past abuse, safewords, kink negotiation, consensual scening 
> 
> Please message me if I have missed any tags, so they can be added. 
> 
> All non-English text is underlined. You can read the English translation by hovering over or clicking the text.  
> Translation notes are at the end of the chapter.

Tim calls Steph within the hour. 

She's eight months into a twelve month undercover assignment in Zaporizhzhya, wrapping up a dual narcotics bust and corruption inquest when Tim makes the call. Interpol kicks up a shitfit over the break in protocol, threatening to dissolve the joint task force, and Tim trusts the Deputy Director to handle them while he extracts Steph. 

Steph cuts the assignment short, hands over a thirty-five man drug trafficking ring, and returns his initial contact on a secondary personal mobile within the next three hours. Tim's already booked her a flight out of Dnipro, and he's standing at Gate B51 thirty hours later. 

He presses a single shot espresso into her waiting palm, exchanges her duffel for a leather-bound file, and guides her out of the airport under the protective authority of his badge. They're fifteen minutes into the ride through Washington DC and Tim's nearly skinned a nickel with how many times he's turned it over in his palm when Steph finally speaks. 

“I was on the Dnieper when I missed your call, sorry,” she mutters, eyes raking the file. She lifts a neatly ruled page to skim the one beneath it. “I was out of range. As soon as we got into port I wrapped things up.” 

“I heard they holed themselves up in a church,” Tim murmurs. 

“Tserkva Mykolaya,” Steph confirms without glancing up. Her blue eyes are fixed on the toxicological psychopathy report. “They were running operations out of the basement. Interpol locked down the block, went in with tear gas and an IRT. Nearly brought the building down on them.” 

“Fucking hell,” Tim breathes, because Steph's superhuman but not bulletproof. “Were you inside?” 

She shakes her head. “No, I was on the ship. It was docked, so locking it down was more logistically feasible than you'd think. Has Barbara seen him?” 

“It's her report,” Tim responds, and Steph's eyes flicker over to slice through him. 

“That wasn't what I asked.” 

Tim sighs and scrubs his forehead with the heel of his hand, trying to dislodge the headache building there. “She did a remote medical diagnosis,” he hedges, and adds under his breath, “while co-located.” 

Steph's eyes roll up like she's halfway through an exasperated prayer. “You have to trust your siblings sooner or later, Tim.” 

“I have perfectly functional relationships with my siblings,” Tim counters, and the unspoken _which is more than you can say_ lingers between them. 

“Last I checked _functional_ precluded shit like having your adoptive sister diagnose a patient through a string phone,” Steph points out, turning over the pharmacokinetics report without sparing a glance. “You're luckily Barbara's as good as she is.” 

“If she wasn't as good as she was, I wouldn't keep her as my consult.” 

Steph punches him in the arm, and Tim spends the next three minutes swearing and rubbing feeling back into it. She doesn't even look up from the report. “You say that shit out loud again and I'll sic Cass on you.” 

“As long as you don't sic Babs on me, I'll be fine,” Tim commiserates. 

Steph falls silent for a long while, and Tim notes that she's been staring at the last page for the past two minutes, not even reading it. “How is he?” she asks softly. “Scale of one to ten.” 

“A solid six,” Tim replies, and watches her heave a tight breath. “He's a wreck since he found out you were in the field, but he's better than you'd think.” 

“Means more than you think it does.” 

“Oh no,” Tim contradicts aloofly. “I'm aware. I've spent the last month in close quarters with him. But no, he's definitely doing better. Even let me put him down the other night.” 

Steph's brows raise at that. “Wow. And also, wow. He's growing.” 

“What's that supposed to mean?” 

Steph smiles that coy, secretive smile that Tim always hates. She glances down to her lap, closing the report file. “I don't know how well you know him, but Jason's not the warm and cuddly type.” 

“Yeah no, I got that memo loud and clear,” Tim confirms with a wry twist of his lips. “Didn't even know he was FBI till last night either.” 

Steph's brows raise. “That makes two of us. But that doesn't surprise me. I meant that he has trust issues.” 

“Who doesn't.” 

“Yeah well, Dad wasn't super supportive when Jason found out he was a sub,” Steph explains. “Was even less thrilled when Jason announced he maybe, possibly wasn't straight.” 

Tim chews this over in his mind. “You're not straight though.” 

Steph scoffs. “Not even close. But it wasn't the same. Coming out as bi when you're a dom goes down easier than coming out as a gay sub. It was one of the reasons we parted on such bad terms when he went to Pennsylvania. I know he wasn't holding it against me, but I know it hurt to be treated with such a double standard.” 

“I can see why he might regret that.” Tim sucks on his teeth, pocketing the nickel as they pass the Three Sisters. He knows they've got about five minutes before his apartment building rears up in the windscreen. “Anything else you wanted to ask me?” 

Steph chews something over before asking quietly. “Did you get the bastards who did this?” 

“Most of them,” Tim responds in an equally low tone. 

The car hits the curb as they pull up, and Steph climbs out in a fluid slip of movement. “We're going to fix that,” she promises lowly. 

Tim swallows that failure down as he alights from the vehicle, following her across the pavement as he passes the duffel to her. 

Tim waits until they're alone in the elevator before he asks, “What are you going to say to him?” 

Steph's expression looks pained beneath its alabaster calm. “I have no idea. I figure I'll just wing it, you know?” 

And Tim knows Steph's an improviser at heart, so her pinched expression is all the more concerning. He fixes his gaze on the back of the elevator doors so he doesn't have to think about it and counts the floors up until they're staring at his hallway. Tim goes first, because he knows she'll want the buffer being a half-step behind him will offer. 

Jason's sitting on the sofa, looking as calm as a jitterbug and twice as flighty. His chin jerks up at the commotion of Tim jimmying the handle. Tim offers him a consolatory smile that he returns with a look of sheer panic, before Tim steps aside to let Steph through. 

Steph stutters to a stop in the foyer as Jason rises to his feet, fingers trailing hesitantly along the arm of the sofa, as if he's unsure whether to approach her. She stiffens imperceptibly, drawing in a deep breath as he approaches. 

Tim isn't sure if she wants to hug him or hit him. He's tensed for either when Jason surges forward and wraps her up in his arms. 

It takes a moment for her brain to come online, but then she folds into him, her hands tight fists against his shoulder blades. Jason's hands are shaking on her back, and Tim swallows thickly. 

“,” Steph spits. 

“,” Jason agrees, and Steph hiccups wetly. 

“,” Tim announces with a roll of his eyes, and cops the duffel over the head for it. He catches it and grins, extracting himself to the kitchen to give the siblings some privacy. 

He sets three fresh mugs on the countertop and watches surreptitiously as Steph holds Jason at arm's length. 

“God damn you,” she says, and Tim will deny under oath that he sees the sparkle of tears in her eyes. 

“I'm sorry,” Jason chokes out, hard and fast, like he may never get to say it again. “I'm so sorry, I didn't mean anything I said. I'm so sorry, Steph, please-” 

“Shut up,” she orders, and Tim _hears_ Jason's jaw snap shut. Steph's got a mean glint in her eye, and Tim pauses in metering out the drip coffee to discern whether he needs to intervene. “You have nothing to apologise for. And even if you did, I _forgive_ you. God damn it, I forgive you.” 

“I shouldn't have said what I did,” Jason mutters, and Steph glares. “But I didn't know. I didn't think you'd go to Europe. I didn't think that would be- that it could be the last time we spoke. And I didn't want _that_ to be how you'd remember me.” 

“You pulled me out of Europe,” Steph says, and Jason nods without even an ounce of guilt. “Out of Ukraine. I was undercover. I was on a _case_ -” 

“Yeah, you're not the only one,” Jason says with the hint of a smug smile. “Don't think being UC is special or anything.” 

Her glare brightens, and Tim smiles to himself. Steph is one of the most competitive people he's ever met. Far from her to concede anything. “Sorry, _beat cop_ , did I step on your cute little 44th Street drug bust?” 

Jason starts slightly, and Tim watches confusion dance over his features briefly before he says, “You don't know.” 

“Don't know what?” 

Jason glances over at Tim and he jolts, caught snooping. Jason doesn't acknowledge it, rushing into a demand of, “Did you tell her I was UC?” 

“What do you mean?” Steph asks at the same time Tim says, “Not yet.” 

“I'm with the Bureau now,” Jason explains, still a bit stunned. “That's what I was doing in Serbia. I was UC with a drug cartel. I thought you knew? I assumed you'd read the report?” 

“What report?” Tim says sharply as Steph retorts, “Naturally.” 

Jason raises an eyebrow at Tim. “I know you wrote a report on me. I saw it on your laptop last week. Read through almost all of it. I assumed it mentioned Serbia.” 

“Hey!” Tim protests with a frown, the coffee pot chiming as he sets it down perhaps a tad too hard. “That's confidential!” 

“It's about me. I think I have a right to read it.” 

“You don't, legally.” 

“Well, I do, morally. And I've read it, so it's moot anyway.” 

Steph glances between the pair of them while Tim retrieves the cream, before cutting in, “It didn't say you were in Serbia.” 

“Right,” Jason says, meeting her gaze. “It only had the Albanian stuff. Well, I was in Serbia for a year with a drug cartel. Go figure. We would've been six hundred miles apart? Not even that?” 

“They must have planted you quickly. Did they set you up with a new cover?” 

Jason shakes his head. “I already had a birth certificate under my old name, and school records up until I was adopted. So I just picked up my mom’s name. It’s easier to use an existing name for a cover than create a whole new one. Being orphaned comes with some handy boons, right? The Bureau only had to fabricate about a decade of busywork. I don’t think anyone even drew the connection between Jason Todd and Jason Haywood. And I know the ‘Psi always does some digging on new recruits; shit, I did some when we got a fresh batch of newbies. So the Bureau must have done some of their job right.” 

There’s a note of resentment underscoring his tone, and Steph gives him a look, but doesn’t pry. 

“So you were undercover with the Bureau?” Steph enquires. “When did that happen?” 

To Tim's surprise, Jason looks sheepish. “After Pennsylvania.” 

Steph looks distrustful. “You've been with the Bureau for five years? I would have thought I'd come across you by now.” 

“Not five years,” Jason hedges. “More like two. And I was off grid for one of those years.” 

“Then what did you do in Pennsylvania? You must have been keeping busy, right? To support yourself. You were there for a few years.” 

Jason winces, and Tim stills, unable to discern where this is coming from. “I… went back to New York.” 

Steph blinks. “What?” 

“I went back to New York,” Jason repeats, quieter this time. His volume gets softer with each confession. “I rejoined the NYPD. I was living in Brooklyn.” 

Steph stares. Stares longer and harder than Tim has ever seen someone stare, and Bruce and Alfred were direct eye-contact chronic arguers. “For how long?” 

“I came back after eight months,” Jason admits. 

And _now_ Steph looks like she wants to hit him. “You came back to New York, rejoined the NYPD, and didn't tell anyone? How did you skate under Dad's radar, in his own city?” 

“His city?” Tim interjects with a disbelieving snort. “What is he, mayor?” 

“Police Commissioner,” Steph corrects, and Tim blinks. 

“Your dad is the _Police Commissioner of New York City?_ ” he screeches furiously at Jason, who rolls his eyes. 

“Thanks for that,” Jason mutters in Steph's direction. 

“You earnt it,” she shoots back. 

Tim's still grappling with this very important piece of information. “Why didn't you tell me that? Why didn't you tell me you worked for the NYPD before the Bureau? Is that why you wanted to go back to New York? And also - _his_ city?” 

“It's his city, we're all just living in it,” Jason and Steph say in startling, blunt unison. 

“Jesus, Children of the Corn, cool it with the creepy chanting,” Tim teases, grinning. Even Jason quirks a smile at the reference. 

Steph opens her mouth to say something to Tim, but all that comes out is, “Cream.” 

“Huh?” Tim says stupidly. 

“The cream,” Steph insists, and points to the counter, which is now overflowing with gelatinous white liquid. Tim swears and hastily sets the carton aside, scrambling for some towels. 

Jason comes to his aid, helping him wipe down the counter while Steph hovers nearby. He dumps the brimming cup in the sink, and Tim considers it a good call on the unsalvageable cream-to-coffee ratio. He pulls out a spare mug and begins the process again, letting Jason meter the other two cups and hand them out. 

Steph curls her hands around the mug with an amused hum, and Jason leans a hip against the countertop while Tim meticulously reconstructs his own coffee. 

“Okay, so,” he says slowly, and meets Jason's amused gaze. “Let me get my timeline right. You left New York, stayed in Pennsylvania for a few months, then went _back_ to New York and worked as a beat cop-” 

“I mean, I was a beat cop before I left for Pennsylvania, but sure, go on.” 

“Whatever. New York, beat cop. Then you join the Bureau on what, a transfer? And they throw you into an undercover mission straight away?” 

Jason shrugs with one shoulder. “Pretty much. I must’ve been too good an opportunity to pass up. So Serbia, then Albania, and we're back to here. And speaking of long tangents across Europe,” Jason interjects, and turns to glower at Steph. “Why aren't you at Columbia State?” 

Steph startles, but recovers with astounding grace. “Excuse me?” 

“You were studying,” Jason presses with a deep-set frown. “You were going to go into law. What happened?” 

“I got my juris doctor,” Steph answers with a shrug. “And I did a few months interning with the Bureau in their legal department, and well, I hit it off with some of the higher ups.” 

“Oh,” Tim says, and it finally dawns on him how Steph climbed the ranks so quickly. “Dick.” 

“Dick?” Jason cuts in sternly. 

Tim smirks, racing to the punch before Steph can spoil this one for him. “Steph dated my brother Dick for a few months.” 

“Tim,” Steph warns, glowering, and Jason's eyebrows raise. 

“Cool,” he says in a voice that's _way_ too aloof. 

“And also Wally. Maybe concurrently.” 

“Tim!” 

“What? Dick's my brother, I can say what I want about his polyamory.” 

“You didn't have to drop it on him like that!” 

“But that is how you got moved onto the Interpol joint task force, right?” Tim presses, and notices that Steph's shifted her grip on the mug very slightly. It resembles knuckle dusters, brace over her digits, and Tim's vividly reminded that she's just finished a sojourn with a Ukrainian mafia clan. It's accompanied by the startling realisation that he's the least dangerous person in the room. His self-preservation instincts have always been cosmetic at best. “You seduced your superior and got yourself a reassignment.” 

“It wasn't like that,” Steph says with thick calm. “You _know_ Dick's not like that.” 

“Oh, so you enlisted Wally's help to tip the scales, right?” 

“Tim,” Steph reiterates with cloying, dark composure. He leans his elbows against the countertop and braces the coffee in his hands to hide his smirk. 

“Sorry,” he says without an ounce of sincerity. “I'll let you tell him.” 

Steph sighs and glances at Jason, who has an unfathomable expression. “I dated Tim's brother and another man. It was polyamorous, sort of. We're not dating anymore, but they’re engaged. One to ten?” 

It must be an old thing they share, because Jason immediately answers, “Eight.” 

Steph's brows rise, and Tim desperately tries to work out if that's a positive eight or negative eight. “Eight?” 

“I haven't met any of Tim's siblings,” Jason explains as he inhales steam. “Other than Barbara. But if either of them are able to put up with his bullshit, they can surely handle you. And you them.” 

“Hey!” Tim protests with a slight frown. Jason grins. 

“No, Tim's definitely the most difficult of the five,” Steph confirms sagely, and Tim shoots her a betrayed glare. “You have good taste.” 

Jason startles as Tim straightens. “Oh no, we're not-” he starts, as Tim says, “No, we haven't-” 

Steph laughs, setting her mug down. “You should see your faces. It says something about you that you've faced Serbian and Albanian gangsters, and _commitment_ is what terrifies you. Really mature, boys.” 

Jason flushes, muttering, “Shut up.” 

“You're not talking to Barbara,” Tim orders, and it has all the weight of a feather. “Or Cass.” 

Steph snorts. “Bold of you to assume we're not already mapping out your astrological compatibility.” 

 

* * *

 

He barely sees Jason for the next three weeks. 

Tim's head's buried in a case, and he spends more hours on his laptop or in court than he does actually sleeping. Can't seem to find the time to even catch up with Steph. 

She and Jason have been almost inseparable since Steph got back in the country. They really seem to be intent on making up for lost time, because Tim spies Steph in the lounge room or in the lobby gym most days of the week. 

Jason's picking back up on his exercise regime, and has even started tutoring Steph in Balkan cuisine. They're huddled in the kitchen every afternoon, with Steph interjecting some Ukrainian twist on the traditional recipes, and Jason insisting that the Serbian combinations are the most rewarding. It's a heartwarming interaction to overhear, and Tim only wishes he could spend more time amongst the pair of them, wishes he could spare the time to be apart of something like that. 

The court case drags through July and into early August while summer peaks in sweltering swathes north of one hundred degrees. Richmond even gets a one-oh-five scorcher, and it's not until two o'clock on the twelfth that the judge officially grants them the trial hearing. Tim nearly sings their praises right there in the gallery. He turns down the DA's invitation to get a celebratory drink, and utilises his suddenly, blessedly free schedule to reconnect with Steph and Jason. 

When he gets back to the apartment, Steph and Jason are both in the living room. She's sprawled out on a mountain of cushions, and his back is to the sofa, sitting cross-legged on the rug. 

“Court finished early. I brought some baklava home with me,” Tim calls cheerfully, shucking his briefcase and approaching them both. “Thought we could watch a movie-” 

He freezes at the end of the sofa, feels Steph's indolent gaze alight on the container in his grip. “Fantastic,” she purrs, her eyes brightening, and straightens somewhat. Tim barely registers it. 

“Is he down?” he demands. Jason's eyelids are closed, his chin tilted down towards his chest. The line of his shoulders is serene and relaxed, and Steph's fingers trail through his hair. He's not moving, his breathing even and uninterrupted. 

“Sorry, yeah, I should have told you when you came in; we're in a scene,” Steph says apologetically, and glances down at him fondly. “I mentioned that you and I would sometimes scene, and he wanted to try it. I didn't see the harm.” 

A million things race to the tip of Tim's tongue, but all that comes out is a stiff, “Oh.” 

Steph looks at him then, properly notes the coil of frustration in his shoulders and the cold aloofness on his features. “Is something wrong?” 

“Nope,” Tim replies, and tosses the container in her direction, turning on his heel. Steph fumbles to catch it and sets it aside with a frown, rising up off the sofa to follow him into his bedroom. 

“You want to tell me what's going on?” 

“Nothing's going on.” 

“Something is. What's wrong?” 

“Nothing. I've got a case to work on.” 

“The Rusiecki case? It can wait til later. I've been in Europe for _months_. We can watch some movies together, catch up-” 

“Busy.” 

Steph pauses, watches him collect some of the paperwork scattered across his bedroom floor. “Did I do something?” 

Tim can feel the frustration simmering beneath his surface, does his best to set it aside. “No. It's been a long day. I just want to work on some files.” 

“But you just said you wanted to watch-” 

“Yeah, that was before you put him in a scene without me,” Tim snaps, the words bubbling out of him before he can curb them. 

Steph blinks at him, stunned. “Run that one by me again?” she says, a hint of warning in her tone. Tim's reminded that despite everything, Steph's still a full-fledged dom, and Tim's being annoyingly territorial about this. 

“He came to _you_ for a scene,” Tim says irritably. He feels unnaturally defensive. “And you didn't think to ask- I don't know. I just thought maybe we were making some progress. He let me put him down last time-” 

“We don't own him, Tim,” Steph reminds him sternly. “He gets to decide who puts him down. If anyone gets to put him down. Scening is his choice.” 

“I know that,” Tim growls, dumps a pile of papers on his bed. “I know, I really do. It's just- I thought we were getting somewhere. I spent the better part of two months getting him to trust me. And then he let me scene him when he _really_ needed it, not just when he wanted it. And I thought- I don't know, I thought he'd ask me when he wanted it this time.” 

Steph's features soften with his admission. “He's complicated, Tim. He's not always rational. I don't know why he asked me to scene him-” 

“He asked you because he trusts you.” 

“That doesn't mean he doesn't trust you,” Steph asserts, and crosses her arms over her chest. 

“Sure. Be honest, if you had known, would you have refused?” Tim asks, meeting her stern blue gaze. Steph rolls her bottom lip between her teeth, thinking, and Tim nods to himself. “No. That's what I thought.” 

“It's his decision,” Steph begins, but Tim cuts her off. 

“Yeah, and he's entitled to it. And I'm entitled to be a bit pissed about it all; that's my decision.” 

“You should talk to him about it,” Steph says softly, and it irks Tim for a reason he can't place. 

“How do you even talk to someone about that?” Tim sneers, more to himself than anything. He keeps his gaze fixed on the splayed files as he thumbs through them. “'Hi, just wondering when you're finally going to get over yourself and let me take a stab at one of the most intimate human experiences available to us? No biggie!'” 

Steph glares, purple nails biting into her biceps. “So you're not even going to try to fix this?” 

“Why would I need to? He has you now.” His words are blunt and pointed, and he watches Steph recoil defensively from them. 

“Ok then,” she says icily. “When you're ready to talk to me about whatever the hell I'm missing here, I'm all ears. Until then, keep it to yourself. All of it.” 

Steph steps out of the room, and Tim's only response is to kick the door shut behind her. 

 

* * *

 

Their stalemate doesn't improve over the next few weeks. Neither does Tim's mood. 

Jason comes up from the downscene like it's the best fucking thing to happen to him in two years, and it might well be. It leaves a bitter taste on Tim's tongue for the rest of the week. 

Steph's still a frequent presence in their lives, but she has the courtesy not to impose herself on Tim. Or take Jason out of his vicinity. Even though she has a townhouse just over in Bethesda, Steph makes the effort to come see Jason on his turf. It's a silent nod to Tim, and he can't interpret it as anything other than one dom recognising another's claim. That alone makes his mood sour irreparably, even though he knows deep down he wouldn't want it any other way. 

Tim and Steph haven't made up yet, and Tim can see that Jason is coming around to the realisation. He hasn't worked out what their stalemate is over yet, or quite when it arose, but Tim can see that he's feeling the tension. 

Tim doesn't particularly care. It's not like Jason gets the opportunity to bring it up with him. Jason's taken a real shining to the apartment plaza gym since Steph got back, for whatever reason Tim can't discern other than it's _Steph_ , and she'd be game to wipe the floor with them even if they were both at their athletic peaks. He knows, because she has. So most afternoons Jason and Steph book out one of the personal training rooms to spar, and Tim tries to ignore how they elbow each other and chatter as they wander back into the apartment, completely oblivious to his sphere of disdain. 

He knows he's getting more and more short-tempered, even towards Jason. Sarcasm is at an all-time high, and every well-intended suggestion is thrown back with a sharp quip. Which Tim's sure Jason's receiving loud and clear, even though he's not showing how it's irritating him. If anything, his demeanour has become even more lenient and casual around Tim, and it irks him to think that it's Steph's dynamic management that's to thank for his stability. 

So Tim buries himself in his work, keeps his head down and his nose out of everyone else's business. He's surly enough that his older sister, mother hen that she is, takes matters into her own hands. 

Barbara sets him up on a blind date. Says she's a lovely nurse who works at the hospital Barbara consults for, just about his age and also on the singles scene. When Tim points out he's not actively _on_ the singles scene, Barbara practically pushes him out the door, to Jason's vocal amusement. 

“Shut up, Todd,” Tim spits back into the apartment, snagging a coat off the hooks as Barbara manhandles him towards the elevator. 

“Her name is Kori,” she instructs. “She's a triage nurse. Just go to dinner, see if you like it. If it's absolutely terrible, then you only have to stick it out for a few hours. And if you come home before eleven, I will shoot your ass.” 

“Threats are always a good sign,” Tim quips as she leans in to punch the lobby button. Then she steps back and fixes him with a raised eyebrow, arms crossed over her chest. 

“Play nice,” she orders, and the elevator doors swallow her up. Tim sighs into the ambience. 

It's not that he's not interested in women; like his dynamic, he tends to swing both ways fairly consistently. He's just not really in the headspace to be hitting the dating scene right now. 

But Barbara doesn't make threats lightly, and - as always - she tends to have a pretty intuitive grasp on just what a person needs at any given time. 

His date meets him at Gravitas, an upscale joint in Northeast Washington. Everything is industrial-chic, from the long booth seats to the exposed brick wall. The lights are all fashionably dimmed, so Tim is surprised that she manages to see him at all. He spots her lingering in the doorway, glancing down intermittently at a photo on her phone, and Tim takes pity and waves her over. 

“Thanks,” she says in a rich, even tone once she's taken her seat. She surrenders her cherry red overcoat to the waiter, and Tim takes a moment to really drink her in as she settles in with the wine list. 

She has gushing waves of bright dyed hair, and the dimmed overheads cast her warm skin tone in hues of mocha and chocolate. She's wearing a simple but elegant lavender bardot, and a heavyset golden necklace. Her locks are similarly adorned in tiny weaves of gold chain, and Tim spots more jewellery wrapped around her right wrist when she runs it through her hair. 

She has the darkest eyes Tim's even seen, and a soft, heart-shaped face that is entrancing. She orders a glass of the Cru Monplaisir and folds the wine list into the attending waiter's hands with a kind smile before turning her attention on Tim. 

“Kori Andrada,” she says, extending her palm. Her bracelet has chains that connect to her rings, and Tim takes her hand dumbfoundedly. 

“Tim Drake,” he responds. “You look wonderful.” 

“Thank you,” she responds without pride, a small smile lifting the corners of her lips. “I'm not sure how much Barbara told you about me.” 

“Absolutely nothing,” Tim assures her. “Which seems like a crime, from where I'm sitting.” 

Kori laughs, and it's a chiming, delicate sound. “I suppose we should start with the boring questions, shouldn't we? Barbara said you were a doctor?” 

Of course she did. Tim hopes his wince is imperceptible in the dimmed lighting. “I was doing my residency a couple of years back. But now I consult for law enforcement.” 

“Interesting career change. I myself am a triage nurse at Inova Alexandria.” 

“I've heard good things about Inova.” 

Kori shrugs easily. “They take care of their staff. And it's only a ten minute drive from home. My sister and I split an apartment in Alexandria, to reduce rent costs.” 

“What does your sister do?” 

“She's a stock broker. Are your siblings also in medicine, or…?” 

“Barbara's in medicine, the rest are in law enforcement,” Tim explains, and she nods. “Do we start the totally invasive, abruptly personal questions now or are we saving that for dessert?” 

Kori chuckles lowly. “Ask away.” 

“Did you actually want to come tonight? Blink twice if you're under duress.” 

“I'm not under duress. It _is_ my first decent break in two weeks, so I was planning on cosying up in bed and finally binging Call The Midwife. But I'm not regretting that I came tonight. You seem like good company.” 

“I'm flattered,” Tim purrs, and leans back against the booth seating. “Your turn. Ask me anything and I'll answer truthfully. Scouts honour.” 

Kori looks amused. The waiter returns with two glasses of wine, and she scoops up her glass, mulling a question over. “What would you say is the biggest commitment in your life right now?” 

Tim blinks, and Kori must interpret his expression as discomfort. 

“I'm sorry, I can walk that question back if it's too-” 

“No,” Tim interrupts. “No, it's fine. You just surprised me. I suppose work would have to take the cake.” 

“That's a broad answer,” Kori chides. “Work's always the biggest commitment in anyone's life. Give me something specific.” 

“I'm working on... a case at the moment,” Tim admits, and Kori watches him over the rim of her glass as she takes a sip. “It's proving to be pretty challenging at times, but I think it's rewarding work. It's for a good cause.” 

“What drew you to your job in the first place?” she asks. 

“The money,” Tim answers honestly. He's not ashamed about it; he works long hours, and he charges for his time. He knows what he's worth. “And the fresh landscape. What about you?” 

Kori shrugs a delicate shoulder. “I like the methodicalness of it. I like being able to offer some order in an emotionally-charged situation. I like to be able to provide that solstice for people.” 

Tim hums, takes that in stride. “I can appreciate that. Who's your familial role model?” 

“I'm guessing you studied Ackerman if you're asking me that question,” Kori says with a wry smile. “I'm close with my sister. We don't have any other siblings, and our father was quite invested in his work as we grew up, so we leaned on each other for support. Outside of immediate family, my sister was close with our aunt, so I guess I am too, to an extent. But I don't think I have a familial role model in the traditional sense. My sister Koma's the closest I get to inspiration. What about you?” 

“Cass and I are pretty close,” Tim agrees. “There's a year between us, and three years between us and Barbara, so we tended to band together on most things growing up. So I know what you mean when you say she inspires you. Barbara's astounding, I'm so proud of her, and she's helped me through a lot. It's easy to say she, Cass and Bruce are the biggest sources of inspiration in my life.” 

Kori nods at that. “So, change of pace: what do you do to wind down?” 

“Ah,” Tim sings. “Aside from binge-watching Netflix, I used to do photography and play social baseball. Not so much nowadays, between the work and Netflix. But I used to be a half-decent pitcher. Now I guess I cook. I was considering learning another language, too.” 

“You speak a second language?” Kori interjects with light interest. 

“French,” Tim supplies. 

Kori smiles, setting her wineglass aside. “Can you speak some French for me?” 

“?” Tim murmurs, and Kori chuckles, leaning her chin into one palm. “Do you speak another language?” 

“English is my second language,” Kori admits with a private smile. “. I studied French in junior high, and I did a diploma of Arabic languages in college.” 

“Wow, that's very impressive,” Tim says with sincerity, straightening in his seat. “Do you speak Tagalog at home?” 

“My sister and I use English and Tagalog,” Kori confirms. “My father insists we keep to English around guests, but he speaks Tagalog too.” 

They're interrupted by their waiter, who fills some glasses of water for them as he takes their orders and relieves them of the menu. Kori orders the pecorino risotto, and Tim orders the hay-smoked squab. 

“Alright, down to the really hard questions,” Tim insists once their waiter has departed, and Kori sets her elbows on the tabletop, giving him her full attention. “Where do you think your personal weaknesses lie, and what do you think you need to improve on?” 

Kori hums contemplatively, glancing upwards as she thinks. “I'm probably not as confident or assertive as I could be,” she provides. “I tend to take the easiest route when it comes to difficult patients, but I should probably be more authoritative when it comes to being argumentatively decisive.” 

“What are you doing to improve on that?” 

“I'm applying for a promotion,” Kori responds with a twinkle of amusement in her eye. “Still within triage, but it's a more supervisory role. I think I can offer a lot to the role, but it's going to involve butting heads with some of my colleagues, naturally. So I'm being more verbally assertive with patients, and just generally recognising the strengths I have to offer in my workplace. Just little things to improve my self-confidence. What about you?” 

Tim gives a short, sharp laugh. “I think I'm your polar opposite. I've been told I'm a bit domineering, and I'll admit to that. It's not like I rush into anything blindly, but I tend to make qualitative, snap decisions and stick to them. Call it stubbornness if you want, but it has its perks. It suits my work environment. And I tend to believe everyone is the master of their own destiny, to an extent. So I expect people to speak up if they disagree with a decision I've made. I tend to make myself known if I don't think all the alternatives have been considered, so I sort of assume everyone will grant me to courtesy in return. I'm coming around to realising that's not always the case.” 

“And how are you improving on that?” Kori asks, a mirror of his own interrogative questioning. 

“I'm trying to relinquish control a bit more,” Tim explains. “I'm learning to trust others' decisions more, and also actually prompt people to tell me their thoughts on an idea instead of steaming ahead with it. Opening up lines of communication. Being more receptive to ideas I don't immediately agree with. It's offering me new perspectives.” 

“That's very self-aware. So what are your blind spots?” 

Tim blinks. “Blind spots?” 

“Where do you find that you're less perceptive and more stubborn? What have you argued over lately?” Kori clarifies. 

Tim opens his mouth, then closes it, and actually thinks that question over. “I argued with a close friend recently, now that I think about it.” 

“What did you argue about?” 

“Trust,” Tim admits. “Which one of us a mutual friend trusts more.” 

Kori winces. “That's a hard argument to have. How'd you come out of that one?” 

“I didn't really,” Tim says quietly, mulls over the disagreement he and Steph had had. “I felt cornered, and I lashed out. I probably should apologise to her, but I don't feel like we're on even ground about the whole thing.” 

“I don't think your friendship is a competition.” 

“Sure feels like one.” 

“Then maybe you don't know this mutual friend as well as you think you do,” Kori offers sagely. “For better or worse.” 

Tim doesn't know how he feels about that, but he's spared the need to dissect his feelings on the matter when their entrees arrive. Kori's kind enough to draw attention away from his indecision, and the rest of their evening passes in a blur of humour and geniality. Tim stills feels tender and bruised by the time he flags Kori a taxi home and waves her off. 

 

* * *

 

The apartment's dark when Tim gets home, but for the living room lamp beside the TV stand, which casts Jason in a warm glow. He's sprawled out on the sofa, a book propped open on his chest, but he glances up with a small smile when Tim walks in. Tim insistently shoves back the notion that he must have been waiting up for Tim to return. 

“Hey,” he says easily, shifts a bit to watch Tim hang up his coat. “How was your date?” 

Tim casts him half a tired glare. “Why do you care?” 

“Ouch,” Jason purrs, and rolls with it, snapping his book closed. “That bad, huh?” 

Somehow the suggestion that his date was terrible sparks a flame of jealousy in Tim. “Actually, it was good. Great, even. We had dinner at Gravitas, talked for hours. We really hit it off.” 

“You going to ask her out again?” 

“I haven't decided.” 

“What's holding you back?” Jason quips with a grin. “Sounds like you two got on well. What's stopping you?” 

“Oh you know,” Tim sneers, fixing himself a glass of water so he can avoid meeting Jason's gaze. “It's a big step. You've gotta have faith in a person before you bring them into your life.” 

Jason mulls that over with half of a frown. “I guess that's true, to a certain degree. Do you not trust her?” 

Tim shrugs, the motion harsh and jerking. “I just want to make sure I'm what she wants out of a relationship. That I can give her what she needs.” 

“What's her dynamic?” 

“She's a dual.” 

“D-leaning like you or …?” 

“You know,” Tim says tightly, and turns to face him. “I don't think that's any of your business.” 

Jason blinks at him, brought up short. “Christ, you're in a bad mood. Who pissed in your cereal?” 

“Got something you want to say?” Tim bites. 

Jason shoots him a heated glower. “Yeah, you need to go down or something?” 

“You'd know about that.” 

Jason blinks, affronted. “Where did that come from?” 

“Nowhere. It's nothing,” Tim mutters, and heads for his room. “Forget it.” 

“You've got a problem with me scening?” Jason prods, straightening, and Tim stutters to a stop halfway between the kitchen counter and his bedroom door. “I can go elsewhere, if it's making you uncomfortable.” 

“It's not _where_ ,” Tim contradicts, and Jason's frown deepens. 

“Then what-?” His expression clears, and Tim feels his chest coil tighter. Jason's brow rises. “You've got an issue with Steph putting me down?” 

Tim studiously turns back into his room, shoulders hunched. “Goodnight, Jason,” he says firmly, and shuts the door behind himself. 

 

* * *

 

Tim's woken to a spray of natural sunlight gushing through his now-open curtains and an only slightly out of breath Jason standing back against the cascading light. He's been training, Tim can tell by the sweats that hug his hips and the thin sheen of perspiration staining his singlet. His arms are crossed over his chest, and he looks ready to drag Tim out of the bed. 

It takes Tim all of two seconds to jump to Jason's conclusion, bury himself face-first into the pillow and growl, “No.” 

And Jason, because it's Jason, is having none of his shit. “You've had your tantrum. It's been three days. Now we're going to talk about this like actual, rational adults.” 

“Who died and made you counsellor?” Tim sneers around a mouthful of cotton. 

He finds himself screeching with sudden, panicked vertigo in the next minute when Jason yanks him by his ankle from the bed. Once he's finished wheezing into the carpet, he flings himself up into a sit against the mattress and bellows, “ _What_ is your _problem_?” 

“You're my problem, asshole,” Jason spits back, his expression dark as he comes down to squat at Tim's level. It's both comforting and immensely condescending, all at once. 

“I'm not having this conversation with you-” 

“Oh, we're having this conversation, alright,” Jason retorts, gaze flashing like steel. “You might not want to, but we're having it.” 

Tim pauses for the barest, stunned second. “,” Tim rattles off like gunfire.  

“,” Jason spits, upstarting. He shakes his head once, in warning. “You picked the wrong fucking house to have a multilingual argument in, __. I can and _will_ call Barbara over to translate for me. I may not have taken six years of French, but I can cuss you out in three languages; you are on the back foot here, shithead.” 

Tim opens his mouth to challenge that, and Jason raises a hand in warning. 

“Don't you try to deflect that, you brat. You're not leaving here until we have this conversation, and it's going to get uglier than it needs to be if you decide you want to keep trying to fuck this up. I'm determined, Tim, don't test me on that.” 

“You can't make me,” Tim retorts, and realises just how petulant it sounds the moment it leaves his lips. Oh well, he's chosen the hill he's going to die on. Might as well build the fucking fort. 

Jason stares at him for an impossibly long minute, brimming with absolute, seething rage. Then he stiffly shoves a hand into his pocket and yanks out his mobile, selecting a number on speed dial. 

Tim coils in the terse silence while Jason glares at him and the phone rings faintly. Someone picks up after four rings, and Jason demands before they can even speak, “Do you speak French?” 

“No?” the feminine voice at the other end answers in bold confusion. Tim can tell immediately that it's not Barbara. His gaze narrows. 

“Perfect.” Jason's glare darkens, daring Tim to say something. Then he stiffens and asks, “Did you kidnap me?” 

There's a brief silence on the other end, and honestly, Tim feels equally as confused with how this conversation is progressing. “No?” 

“Did I change who I was when you stepped back into the picture?” 

“What is this-?” 

“Just answer, please,” Jason sighs, and it's tired. 

“No, you didn't change. You're the same person you've always been.” 

“Because Tim's under the impression that you stole me away from him,” Jason says, deadpan, and Tim hisses, scrambling to wrestle the phone off him. 

Jason deftly wraps his free hand around Tim's clawing wrist and curls him down to the floor in a firm pin. “Hang on,” he mutters, and shifts his weight over Tim until he's got one of Tim's fingers brushing the nape of his neck and is sitting on his flattened spine. 

“Get off me,” Tim snarls, wriggling fruitlessly. Jason takes it in stride. 

“I know,” Jason agrees with the woman on the line. Tim can't discern much between his own frustrated grunts and her sharp jabbering. “Yeah, I know. Tell him that. Okay. Alright.” 

Then he slides the phone down beside Tim's cheekbone, and Tim's halfway to spitting a curse at him when the voice on the other end says, “You stupid son of a bitch. What did you say to him?” 

Tim frowns, stilling. “Steph?” 

She barks a laugh. “You think I took him off you? Why on earth would you think that?” 

“That's not what I said,” Tim starts, and above him, Jason scoffs. He tosses a glare over his shoulder. “I didn't say that. _He_ thought-” 

Jason pulls the phone away for the barest second to stab at the speaker icon, before saying loudly. “I implied that he had an issue with you and I scening.” 

“I don't have an issue with you two scening,” Tim growls. 

“You have some sort of issue,” Jason points out. 

“Yeah, I have an issue with you choosing Steph over me.” 

Jason blinks, unfazed. “She's my sister,” he says bluntly. 

Tim glares at the carpet. “I know that.” 

“I'm inherently going to trust her more, Tim,” Jason stresses firmly. “She's my sister.” 

“Yeah, well, I thought we were - I don't know,” Tim mutters. “Reconciling? I thought you trusted me.” 

“I do trust you. I let you put me down at Barbara's,” Jason reminds him, and Tim shifts uncomfortably. 

“And then you had Steph put you down. Not me.” 

“Are you jealous?” 

“Fuck off.” 

“I'm serious,” Jason stresses, and leans off Tim's spine to meet his gaze. “Is that what this is about? You're jealous that I chose Steph over you?” 

“Sure sounds that way,” Steph quips through the phone. 

“I didn't choose anyone over anyone,” Jason states, and let's go of Tim's wrist, stepping off him as he straightens. “You want to have a conversation about trust, that's fine. But don't think that I'm picking favourites here.” 

“Then why'd you get Steph to put you down?” 

“Because I needed a scene,” Jason says with a hint of exasperation. “Is that a crime? And you've said before that you use Steph when Barbara or Cass aren't available. So I thought I'd take a page out of your book and spend some quality time with my sister. That doesn't equate to me not trusting you.” 

“I'm going to go,” Steph says in the silence that follows, her tone decisive. “Give you two some privacy. Let me know which one of you comes out alive and we'll get brunch, okay?” 

“Yeah, sure,” Jason says distractedly, and ends the call while Tim pushes up into a sit on the carpet. “Are we going to talk about this?” 

Tim shrugs, not meeting his gaze. “I guess.” 

“Okay,” Jason says, and slides down against the plaster until he's at Tim's height. The walkway is narrow, and Jason hooks his knees over Tim's shins, invading the space so that Tim's forced to look at him. “You're going to talk first, 'cause from where I'm sitting, you started this.” 

Tim huffs, bites the figurative bullet, and replies, “Do you want me to put you down or not?” 

“I don't want anyone to put me down,” Jason responds bluntly, adopting Tim's tone, and doesn't miss Tim's wince. “I got away with getting myself down regularly for the better part of a year. If I could get down without ever needing anyone to help me into a scene, I'd never seek out anyone's help ever again. But biology is a bitch and the world's a shitfight. So here I am. Ask me a better question.” 

Tim takes the suggestion and meets his gaze evenly. “Do you trust me to put you down? Safely and consensually and on your terms.” 

Jason pauses, thinks that over honestly. “I don't know. I don't have a great record scening with other people, so my knee-jerk reaction is no.” He sighs, slumps back against the plaster as he crosses his arms defensively over his chest. “Honestly, pretty much everything about scening scares the crap out of me now. But it's self-improvement month; I'm trying to be a better human being. And part of that is actually trusting people not to fuck me over at the first chance they get. So yeah, I'm open to giving it a shot. Maybe. Probably.” 

“Well, I'm not scening you until that's an emphatic yes,” Tim declares firmly, and the corner of Jason's lip twitches in what could be disapproval or agreement. Tim can't tell. “I've got past experience scening with someone who liked to dance all over my boundaries, so I'm not about to leave any wiggle room for me to do something that could be interpreted as doing anything of the sort to you.” 

Jason fixes him with a forlorn gaze that, if Tim didn't know any better, he'd interpret as immeasurably grateful. “Then where do you want to go from here?” 

Tim rolls his lower lip between his teeth and stares at his lap. “I don't know. That's all I've got.” 

Jason hesitates for a brief moment, before asking delicately, “Would you let me put you down?” 

Tim's gaze snaps up at breakneck speed. He runs his response twice through his filter before he answers slowly, “You're a sub.” 

Jason rolls his eyes, but manages to look nervous doing even that. He shifts slightly where he sits, fixing his gaze just to the left of Tim's head. “Yeah, no shit. Tell me something I don't know.”  

“You're not going to…” Tim fumbles for the right words. “To _get_ anything out of it.” 

“Do I have to?” Jason counters, drawing his knees up to himself a little. “Is me getting something out of it a prerequisite?” 

Tim blinks, mulls that over. “I guess not. Huh. I've never thought of it that way.” 

“That's because you're dom as fuck,” Jason retorts with a wry smile. “If you can't provide, you don't see the value. Most of you don't get the whole aspect of just doing something because it pleases you, or pleases someone else.” 

“That's a very sub perspective,” Tim points out. “And also a huge generalisation. And,” he adds, an irritated crease appearing in his brow, “I'm a dual. So both of those statements could apply to me.” 

“You're one of the most d-leaning duals I've ever met,” Jason remarks smugly, amused. “And I've spent four months with a whole hired security of repressed duals. So yes, dynamically speaking, you have the benefit of both perspectives. But you're dom through and through.” 

“I'm going to pretend that's a compliment.” 

“You do that.” 

“So _you_ want to put _me_ down.” 

Jason glances over at him, his stiff posture softening somewhat. “Yeah, I guess. Can't hurt, right?” 

“I mean,” Tim muses quietly, “it absolutely could.” 

That lingers between them, heavy and unwanted, until Tim breaks the tension. 

“I mean, I don't have to tell you that scening is intense. Especially downscening. And, uh, you should know that if you do try to put me down, it's not necessarily going to be easy. For either of us. Subbing, as you pointed out, is not exactly my strong suit.” 

Jason, to his surprise, smirks. “Are you doubting my skills, Drake?” 

Tim starts, and recovers with a tentative grin. “I'd be happy to be proven wrong.” 

“Challenge accepted,” Jason proclaims, and fixes him with a daring stare. “So when do you want to do this?” 

Something in Tim's stomach curls and coils at his determination, but it's not an unpleasant feeling. He shrugs as nonchalantly as he can manage. “I'm ready whenever you are.” 

“Excellent. Lie down on the bed.” 

Tim jolts and stares at him. “I, uh, right now?” 

Jason chuckles, and uncrosses his arms. “Yeah, if you're keen. Otherwise we can do this another time. My schedule is pretty cleared.” 

“No, yeah, we should,” Tim responds, pushing to his feet. He glances over his shoulder at the mess of sheets behind him, and feels an itch of discomfort scrape up his spine. Jason notices. 

“Hey,” he says soberly, climbing upright. “I was kidding. We don't have to do this now if you don't want to.” 

“No, I do, I really do,” Tim assures him with a quick smile. “I just, uh… not in my bedroom. Please. I've got… a _thing_ about scening in my bedroom.” 

“No, absolutely,” Jason says, taking that in stride as he heads for the door. Tim can't help the gratitude that lights him up from head to toe at Jason's easy dismissal. “Where are you more comfortable, then?” 

Tim thinks on that for a minute. The obvious, safest choice would be the living room, but 'safest' hasn't been a particularly strong factor in Tim's decision-making process for a long time now. “How about your room?” he asks, and Jason casts him a look over his shoulder, surprised. “Not the bed, just somewhere on the floor. There should be enough space.” 

Jason nods and turns back to the door, but Tim catches his knowing smile. It was a pretty transparent move. If he's going to give up this part of himself, to trust Jason with this intimate thing, then he would like a little reciprocation from Jason's side. 

Tim follows him as Jason crosses the living room on sure steps and holds his bedroom door open. “After you,” he says, and waves Tim in. 

He takes a few steps inside, revelling in the feeling of being somewhere private, somewhere that holds importance for Jason. It's a tender, special thing, and Tim treats it with all the delicacy its due. Then he pauses, unsure where Jason wants him. 

“You want the door open or closed?” Jason asks, and Tim chooses the latter. 

“Atmosphere is important,” Tim confirms, and Jason acquiesces. 

He shrugs, stepping past Tim. “I'm claustrophobic, so I like my scenes to be in open spaces.” 

Jason says it so casually, like it's just a personal preference, that Tim starts for a moment. Then he files that away in his memory for later and focuses on the task at hand. “Where do you want me?” 

“On your knees,” Jason determines, and sits on the edge of the bed, gesturing to the carpet beneath before he clarifies, “Is near the bed okay?” 

“Anywhere other than on the bed is great,” Tim assures him with a broad smile, and slides down to his knees. The motion rolls up through him, making him feel every flex and pull of his muscles as he settles on the carpet, bathing him in something heady. “I haven't done this in a while,” he admits aloud. 

“Yeah, we're going to need a safeword,” Jason realises as the enormity of what they're about to do settles on his shoulders. “You got a preference?” 

“What have you used before?” Tim entreats after a moment's pause. 

Jason considers that. “My mom used to call me Little Wing when she put me down, when I was really little. I presented early, so she wanted to make sure I didn't feel embarrassed about it or something. Made me feel safe. She used to joke that her little man was leaving the nest.” He smiles softly and shrugs, but there's a heavy stiffness to it, like the memories are marred. “Have you got a safeword in mind?”

“Let's choose something neutral,” Tim suggests easily. “How about 'rendezvous'?” 

Jason chuckles breathily. “Is that because you like French, or some other reason?” 

“Unlike some people, I only speak one language fluently, so I'm going to get the most out of it.” 

“Fair enough. _Rendezvous_ it is.” 

Tim unfurls his fists and lays them over his thighs, shifts until he's seated more steadily on the carpet, his legs folded under him. He meets Jason's gaze, radiating quiet confidence. “So what now?” 

“Before we start,” Jason says quickly, and Tim recognises a note of hesitancy and very slight panic in his tone, “do you have any limits?” 

Tim blinks. “Oh. That's pretty basic stuff. Probably shouldn't forget that. Uh,” he says as he racks his brain, suddenly stumped. “I'm not good with heights. I don't like ambiguous commands. I'm not adverse to a bit of discomfort, sometimes it helps me get down. I don't mind being held down, but I don't really like restraints.” When Jason blanches at that admission, Tim rushes to say, “Hey, I didn't mean we had to- Just do whatever you're comfortable with. You don't have to tick everything on my list to get me down.” 

“Okay,” Jason sucedes, and reaches tentative fingers out to lace through Tim's hair in a classic dom move. Tim gives an exaggerated, slow wince and leans back out of his touch. 

“Yeah, um, that one's on me,” Tim apologises, and settles back into a relaxed sit when Jason immediately withdraws his hand with a contrite frown. “Sorry, didn't mention that. Really should have. Don't touch my hair. Please. I, uh, it's another… _thing_.” 

Jason's expression clears immediately. “No problem. No hair. Got it. What else?” 

“If you can help it, no pet names,” Tim adds. “Like 'baby' or 'pet' or 'sweetie'. I don't like them.” 

“Done. What do you want me to call you?” When Tim hesitates, Jason suggests, “How about ?” 

Tim laughs, the sound easy and warm. “That works. What am I calling you?” 

Jason shrugs. “French is your territory. You tell me.” 

“How about patron?” 

Jason blinks, frowns slightly. “And that means…?” 

“Roughly, it means boss.” 

“I'm happy with that.” 

“Glad it meets your high standards, patron.” 

Jason fixes him with a wry, tight smile. “Don't push your luck.” 

 _That_ thrums through Tim with all the hallmarks of a clear command, and he settles into an appeasingly neutral smile, murmurs softly and weightily, “Yes, patron.” 

Jason recognises his reaction immediately, huffs to himself and settles more comfortably on the bed, before deciding that he doesn't like the height discrepancy. He half-rises to his feet and then slips down to sit with his back against the side of the mattress, bracketing Tim with his calves. “I want you to tell me if this is comfortable for you.” 

“Yes, patron. I'm comfortable.” 

“Good. Tell me what the safeword is.” 

“Rendezvous.” 

“Tell me when you're going to use it.” 

“Whenever I'm uncomfortable or want the scene to stop.” 

“Good,” Jason says firmly, and Tim lets himself start to slide into the downscene. “Give me your hands.” 

Tim suspends confusion and turns his palms over, laying them in Jason's outstretched hands. He folds Tim's right hand back down to his thigh and takes his left in both hands, pressing circles into the meat of his palm. 

“You need to take more breaks when you're working,” Jason mutters after a few minutes of circling.  

Tim blushes, surprising himself with the heat that rushes to his cheeks. It's partly because it's such a niggling, innocent thing to say. And partly because that means Jason's been paying enough attention to notice how bad his carpal tunnel is getting. The thought that Jason's been keeping quiet tabs on his well-being, is concerned enough to not only mention it but mitigate it, fills Tim with an unexpected simmering pleasure. 

Jason's moved onto his wrist now, is rolling the jointly slowly and carefully while Tim focuses on slow, even breaths. It's not that he's breathing too fast; it's just something to take his mind off the quiet intensity of Jason's attentions. 

“Tell me how that feels,” Jason checks in. 

“Amazing,” Tim murmurs back, halfway to slurring, and adds quickly, “Patron.” 

Jason smirks to himself, and switches over to Tim's other hand, setting his left down with slow and deliberate care. Tilts his wrist back at a right angle and then down at a glacial speed. 

“Tell me where else you have strains.” 

Tim does a quick, inattentive rundown. “Neck, shoulders, lower back.” 

“Which aches most?” 

“Neck.” 

Jason let's his hand fall back to his thigh, meets his gaze and orders, “Turn around, back to me.” 

Tim arches a brow, but manoeuvres around until he's sitting cross-legged on the carpet, Jason's legs closing him in. It feels oddly comforting, like he's protected. 

“You're taking this really well,” he praises softly, and Tim chuckles even as he preens. 

“You're doing a great job.” 

“Even when you're subbing you're domming,” Jason mutters, but it's amused, and Tim ducks his head, grinning. 

“Is that not to your liking, patron?” 

He can _feel_ Jason's thin-lipped disapproval. Doesn't dim the thrill that teasing him brings. 

“Eyes closed,” Jason commands, and Tim whines half-heartedly at the punishment. But his eyes slip closed on his next exhale. 

Then Jason's warm palms slide up and around Tim's throat, and he jolts involuntarily at the contact. Jason doesn't stop, tilting his hands until his fingers are pressing under Tim's jawline. He can feel the thrum of surprise though. 

“You alright?” Jason murmurs hesitantly. “Need to use your safeword?” 

Tim hums. “No. Just surprised me.” 

He makes a special effort not to touch Tim's hair, dancing around his hairline as he digs thumbs into the soft skin below the corner of Tim's jaw. 

“How far down are you?” 

“Still here,” Tim slurs, staring at the backs of his eyelids. “But definitely sinking.” 

Jason falls silent for a long, contemplative minute. “If you were scening me right now,” he muses aloud, “what would you do to me?” 

Tim hums, fascinated with the feeling of his tongue running over his canine teeth. “Tell you how fantastic you are.” 

Jason chuckles, a soft stilted sound. If Tim wasn't so overwhelmed, he'd say Jason was embarrassed. “Is that so, ? Tell me what you'd say.” 

A deep, burning part of him revels at the idea, the opportunity for Tim to preen over him, to provide this small thing. 

“You're fantastic.” 

“You said that,” Jason teases. 

Tim frowns half-heartedly. “Shut up, patron.” 

His nails dig into the side of Tim's jugular, a light warning that sends a small slice of pain up Tim's neck. Tim purrs and leans back into his touch. 

He can feel Jason startling at Tim's reaction. It's hard for him to focus on the external when his eyes are closed and the sensations are amplified tenfold. But he makes the effort to sooth Jason's concern. 

“Don't not-” Tim says, and stumbles over the words. Makes himself start over. “That's not _bad_. Don't think you can't- that I'll-” 

Jason digs his thumbs into the knots of Tim's shoulders with a definite ferocity, and Tim keens and melts into the force of it, bowing under the pressure. He's almost tilted back into Jason's chest, his chin raised skyward as he sinks into the blunt pain. 

“Ah fuck,” Tim admits, and Jason chuckles. 

“So good for me, .” 

Tim whines at the epithet. His jaw falls open as Jason circles harshly into a tight knot, working through the muscle. 

“Keep talking,” Jason orders, and Tim latches onto the command like a lifeline, slowing himself in the descent. 

“You're amazing,” Tim murmurs soberly, keeps his eyes closed and let's himself really float as Jason massages his shoulders. “You're inspiring. I'm so awed at what you've achieved. How far you've come. And you've done it all on your own merit. I'm just so… inspired.” 

Jason's next words sound a little breathless, a little strangled. “Okay, I don't want you to stop, but I'm going to need to not hear that right now.” 

Tim feels a strike of pain flash through his chest at the disapproval. “Sorry, patron.” 

“No, you're- You're doing so well,” Jason soothes, runs the blunts of his thumbs up the back of Tim's neck. “You're so good at following instructions. Too good, actually. If I let you keep going, I'm going to go under and that's not the aim here.” 

 _Oh_. Tim lets that lathe at his wound, soothe it somewhat. But he feels like he hasn't finished the task, hasn't _earnt_ his approval yet. “What if I say it in French?” 

And now he can feel Jason's smile as he moves down to work on each of the nodules of Tim's spine, and he arches upwards to make them more prominent, straightening. “That would be good, .” 

“,” Tim says immediately, the words falling off his lips like a waterfall, slick and effortless and pure. “.” 

Jason hums contentedly, and Tim feels it thrum through him like a chord. “That's… that's really nice. You have to teach me French someday.” 

“,” Tim promises huskily. “.” 

“.” There's a long, comfortable pause, and then Jason says softly, the words hallowed and hesitant, “When I was in Albania, with… them. They used to use English as a privilege. They'd use Albanian, any other language, on us when we were down, so we'd know when we were being disobedient. So we'd feel the shame and the panic of not knowing what the dom wanted, what we had to do to make it right.” 

Tim feels exposed, feels his throat dry at the confession, and tries to stay neutral, to not let it take anything more than a clinical, superficial hold on his consciousness. Doesn't let himself think how tormented it must have felt to not be able to provide for his partner in a scene, to make it up to them. 

Jason sounds achingly relieved when he says, “It's nice to hear a language I don't understand and not immediately think it's because I fucked up, to think it could be good, could be… praise. So thank you, for that.” 

“,” Tim pledges solemnly. 

Jason catches the guilt in his tone. “Say that again for me.” 

Tim swallows and peels his eyelids open. “Do I have to? I like it more when I don't have to justify the words to you.” 

“That's up to you. But that sounded awfully like self-chastisement to me.” 

He sighs. “I said that I wanted to be able to forgive myself for what I did to you, back in Albania. I want to make it up to you, somehow, if that's even possible.” 

Jason doesn't stop running his fingers up Tim's back in confident, practiced motions. But Tim can feel the tension thrumming in the air between them. When the silence stretches for too long and Tim can barely breathe around the heart in his mouth, he breaks it. 

“I know you haven't forgiven me. I'm not asking you to. I don't even know if I deserve to be forgiven. But I just need you to know that I am _sorry_. That I don't discount what I did to you in there, what I made you do. It's inexcusable, and I know that, and I don't want you to think that I'm just sweeping away what I did. And I know I was undercover and it was 'for the greater good' and all that other _shit_ , but I'm not overlooking what happened. And I need you to know that if I could apologise a thousand times over and make it up to you, then I would have done it already. But this isn't something that can be apologised for and forgiven. I'm sorry for that.” 

Jason digests this in contemplative silence, before his hands slide up Tim's spine over his shirt and up to his throat. He rolls the tendons of Tim's neck beneath his fingertips and says, “Let's start with you telling me what you think you did in there. Then we can talk about the rest.” 

Tim draws in a deep, ragged breath, aware that he's no longer sinking. He feels compressed, caught between two sheets of quicksand, the feeling tight and consistent around the column of his chest. “I came to see the facility in Albania, and the- the escort gave me a tour, took me into a backroom to see you. To 'sample the goods'.” The words leave a bitter taste in Tim's mouth, but he forges onwards, determined to see this out. He doesn't miss the way Jason's fingers shake minutely against his heated skin. “So I knew before I even saw you what I was expected to do, and I didn't try to stop it.” 

“You were undercover,” Jason murmurs sympathetically, but it sounds a little cold, a little hoarse. Like he doesn't really believe that wholly excuses Tim's actions. 

“Still.” 

“Keep going.” 

Tim nods. “They took me into the room, and the moment I saw you I knew you were under the influence of some fucking synth. And that should have been enough. I should have walked out then. I knew what it was doing to you. I knew I should have left. But I didn't, because I thought my assignment was the most important thing right then, and because of that I didn't even stop to think about what I was doing to you.” 

“You rescued thirty-two subs from that facility,” Jason reminds him softly, running his warm hands down the panes of Tim's shoulders, “ _because_ you valued your assignment over one inebriated sub.” 

“I don't hear you saying that that was the right thing to do,” Tim points out solemnly, and Jason huffs a short, tight breath. 

“If I were you, or any one of the thirty-one other subs that got to see their families again, then yes, I'd be telling you that it was the right thing to do. And it was. But I wasn't. I was that one inebriated sub that convinced you, and the FBI, and Interpol, and everyone else who had been looking the other way, to finally do something about what was going on in that facility. And yeah, I think that alone makes it the wrong thing. It's complicated. But I suppose it was worth it in the end.” 

“You don't really believe that,” Tim murmurs quietly. 

“You're right, I don't,” Jason acknowledges in an even tone, sounding tired. “I don't think I should have been the one who had to be the compromise. I don't think I should have been the lesser of two evils, or the worse bad for the greater good, or whatever it is the FBI teaches these days. I don't think I should have been the sub who got to demonstrate just how _fucked up_ that facility was, for the FBI to think they finally had do something about it. I don't want to know what convinced them. And what didn't. I don't want to see your report, or hear what you said to them. I don't want to know. I don't think they deserve to be forgiven. I don't think it was their fault; I don't hold it against them. I know there's more traffickers than just the Albanians, and I know that facility probably wasn't even the worst you've seen. But that doesn't mean I can forgive them. I just can't. I shouldn't have to.” 

“You're including me in that net, aren't you?” Tim asks gently, through a tight throat. 

Jason's silent for a long while, and the stillness lingers until he lifts his hands off Tim's shoulders. “Yeah, I am. I'm not going to apologise for that. Just know that I know why you did it, and someday I'll come around to being grateful for it. And know that I don't hate you, even if I resent what happened. I'm holding onto that, for just a little longer, because… Because, well, I want to. And it's been a long time since I got to do what I wanted, just because I wanted to.” 

“You're entitled to that. You absolutely are. And I understand, I do. So, thank you, for that. For telling me as much. You didn't have to, you didn't owe me that.” 

“Yeah, well, we're not finished,” Jason says reluctantly, and orders, “Turn around and face me. Open your eyes.” 

Tim huffs a humourless laugh, and manoeuvres around. “Sorry, patron, already disobeyed that one. But I'm all yours, now.” 

Jason nods, lets that slide easily. Then he fixes Tim with an earnest look, swallows minutely and says, “Now that we've actually discussed that, I want you to tell me what we're doing here. Why you wanted me to live with you. Please.” 

A cocktail of emotions spiral through Tim, but he clamps down on them and meets his gaze with equal sincerity. “I brought you to live with me because I wanted to make it up to you. I wanted you to feel safe, and secure, and untouchable. I didn't want you to have to go back to your old life like nothing had happened; I wanted to give you the option of a buffer, some room to process everything before you moved on. And if you didn't want that - don't want this - then I'll just have to accept that. I'd like you to stay,” he emphasises, because he feels he needs to clarify that, “but I understand if you're uncomfortable with this arrangement. I didn't intend for it to be permanent. I just wanted to… want to provide for you, a tiny bit.” 

Tim sighs, aware of how domineering that sounds, and closes his eyes so he doesn't have to read Jason's expression. Doesn't have to see how irritated he is with Tim, or worse, how resigned he is to it. 

When Jason doesn't respond, Tim offers in a small voice, “I'm sorry.” 

“I'm staying.” 

A flutter of shock and unbridled joy lights Tim up from head to toe. He means to ask a clarifying “What?”, but what makes it past his lips is a dumbfounded, “Really?” 

Jason smirks, and it's small and shy beneath a mask of snarkiness, and Tim _glows_ at the sight of it. “Yeah, I'm staying. I like it here. And where else could I get rent this cheap on the east coast?” 

Tim laughs. “You mean, free?” 

“Yeah, let's not get into that,” Jason warns with half-hearted disapproval. “I'm still not happy about the no-expenses living situation. But I'll deal with it for now. And we're going to talk about me getting some secure employment too.” 

“Aye aye, patron,” Tim purrs, and Jason chuckles. 

“Are you up now, or…?” 

“Yeah,” Tim acknowledges, and Jason looks pleased. “Thank you for a wonderful scene. Best I've had in a long time.” 

“Ditto,” Jason says, with feeling.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translation Notes:**
> 
> Sukyn syn (Сукин син) (Ukrainian) = Son of a bitch. 
> 
> Kučkin sin (Serbian) = Son of a bitch. 
> 
> Allez vous faire foutre (French) = Fuck you both. 
> 
> Que veux-tu que je dise? (French) = What would you like me to say? 
> 
> Ang aking katutubong wika ay Tagalog (Tagalog) = My native language is Tagalog. 
> 
> Ensuite, nous avons cette conversation en français, enculé (French) = Then we're having this conversation in French, cocksucker. 
> 
> Ne povlači to sranje sa mnom! (Serbian) = Don't start that shit with me! 
> 
> Connard (French) = Asshole. 
> 
> Mon soumis (French) = My fool. 
> 
> Patron (French) = Boss. 
> 
> Mon double (French) - My dual. 
> 
> Tu es un si bon soumis (French) = You are such a good sub. 
> 
> Tu es si gentil avec moi. Tu prends tellement soin de moi. Je veux être si bon pour toi. Tu mérites seulement le meilleur. (French) = You are so good to me. You take such good care of me. I want to be so good for you, to you. You deserve only the best. 
> 
> Si ça te fait te sentir si bien, je ne t'apprendrai jamais le français (French) = If it makes you feel so good, I will never teach you French. 
> 
> Mon bon sous (French) = My good sub. 
> 
> Dvoje mogu da igraju tu igru (Serbian) = Two can play that game. 
> 
> J'apprendrais mille langues si cela signifie que je me ferrais pardonner pour ce que je t'ai fait (French) = I'd learn one thousand languages if it meant I could forgive myself for what I did to you.
> 
>  
> 
> Again, I'm not fluent in any of these languages, so if you've got any translation suggestions, please voice them below in the comments!


	5. Eviscerate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter tags:**
> 
> i. Non-consensual medical examination, psychological abuse, drug use, non-consensual scening  
> ii. Psychological abuse, detainment, verbal threats, drug use, non-consensual scening  
> iii. Psychological abuse, drug use, verbal abuse, restraints, non-consensual scening  
> iv. Alcohol use, explicit sexual content (consensual), kissing, fellatio, finger-sucking, anal fingering, anal sex, M/M  
> v. Verbal threats, mentioned past abuse 
> 
> Please message me if I have missed any tags, so they can be added. 
> 
> All non-English text is underlined. You can read the English translation by hovering over or clicking the text.  
> Translation notes are at the end of the chapter.

There's a new face, a man with a pressed blue dress shirt and ironed trousers. He has blue medical gloves on his hands, just below where his wristwatch rests, and the guard escorting him has a folded metal chair under one arm. 

“It spreads rather quickly,” the new man says as he steps through the door, holding it open for his companion. “Lice outbreaks can be virulent, but can be easily contained with the right precautions, the right treatment. Your goods will be clean and ready for sale in no time at all, I assure you.” 

The escort follows through the doorway at a leisurely, inattentive pace, and Jason's conscious of his breath shortening at the sheer sight of the man. He hasn't seen him in what must be at least sixteen days. Not since the day after his 'initiation', when the escort had turned his chin to and fro between his fingers, and inspected the arch of his swollen cheekbone and his split lip, and declared that he'd have merit once he didn't look like someone had kicked his face in. That had done a number on his downed psyche, and it'd taken Jason the better part of three days for him to shake off that underhanded compliment, to reconstrue it as something other than a blatant, unmitigatable criticism. 

He's fairly certain the escort hasn't even been on the premises since Jason was inducted. He's almost positive the man visits this facility and a handful of others on a rotating, infrequent schedule that Jason's unlikely to be privy to. He's only a salesperson in role, unconcerned with the day-to-day happenings of the facility, as long as the subs are pliant and maintained and fit for sale. Jason still hates the sight of him, rues the fear that amused drawl invokes. 

The escort's gaze slides over him where he sits against the far wall, a smirk lifting the corner of his lips, but then it falls away and the vice around Jason's chest relinquishes its hold. He's able to convince himself that he's anonymous amidst the row of nine other subs that line the wall, eyes on their kneecaps and hands tucked non-threateningly under their thighs. 

The armed guard snaps open the metal chair with careless, brutal efficiency, making Jason jolt through the fever he's trying his damnedest to suppress. The Push has been in his system for a few hours, but it's really starting to take effect now, ricocheting through his circulatory system with a keen, visceral malignancy. It's making his head spin and perspiration pool in his clavicle, and Jason is doing all he can not to curl up and rock himself through the waves of it. 

Because he knows that if he does, it's a half-step before he's down and pliant, and he doesn't want to be that vulnerable in front of these people. Especially not in front of the escort, with his sharp, lilting words and astringent schemes. 

Jason sets his jaw and focuses on the cool, recycled air raising the hairs on his forearms. Hyper-fixates on any small sensation that catches his fancy so that he can keep his eyes on his knees and out of the escort's range of attention. 

The new inspector perches on the chair, sets his heeled dress shoes against the hard vinyl floor mats and plucks a black comb from his dress pocket. “Bring them over, one by one. We'll separate those with lice and those without. We'll treat them all; some will just have to be quarantined for the well-being of the others until we can eradicate the pest.” 

There's no scuffle when the handler standing at the end of the row steps off the wall and beckons the first sub to their feet. They go quietly, eager to please, with the soft praising murmurs of the armed guard filtering into their drug-tainted mind. Kneel neatly and pliantly between the knees of the inspector with their back turned as he sifts through their hair and determines that they're clean. 

The escort grows a little weary by the time the third sub is brought over for inspection. Jason watches with the corner of his eye trained on the man as he sits down on the corner of a mat near the door, with his knees crooked and his wrists limp over them. He has an inescapable aura of control about him, wraps himself up in a suit of respect and deference. 

Jason doesn't get to watch him for very long before the armed handler's boots are beside his hip and he's being beckoned upright. He pushes off the wall, shoulders bent together defensively and hands jittering at his sides as he walks across the mat. The armed guard is at his heels, and it's taking most of Jason's concentration not to wig out at the proximity. He gets his reeling nerves under control as he turns to face him and slides down to sit on his heels at the man's booted feet. 

His skin is crawling with a vengeance now, every eddy and breath hypersensitive on his overactive mind. Jason focuses on not hyperventilating, on sitting rigidly still between the inspector's spread knees as he leans forwards and braces a gloved hand against Jason's temple, touches the teeth of the comb to the crown of Jason's head. 

It's one hundred percent instinctual and there's absolutely nothing he can do to control it. It's like a switch flips in him, his nerves alighting in a flight-or-fight response at the foreign, unwelcome, over-heightened sensation. Jason jerks his elbow back and up and into the inspector's jawline on a hair trigger. 

The man jolts back into the metal chair with a garbled cry of surprise more than pain, and Jason collapses to the floor the instant he realises what he's done. Lays his hands over his head and ears and mewls in remorse when one of the armed security winds a hand around his bicep and drags him up off the floor. 

He babbles a stilted, rising string of, “No, no, no, no, no,” and tries to twist out of the man's grasp. Can't discern anything happening around him other than the searing, uncomfortable heat of the man's crushing grip on his feverish skin and the genuinely gut-wrenching feeling that he's fucked up. 

“No,” the escort calls over when Jason's guard tries to sit him back up for the inspector. “Bring him here.” 

Jason snarls, the sound less directed fury and more the lashing out of a cornered animal, as the guard stops trying to haul him upright and just drags him across the room. He's dumped at the corner of the floor mat, next to the shiny dress shoes of the escort as he rises to his full height, and Jason immediately tries to scramble away. 

The escort leans down and snags a hand in the front of his clothing, yanking Jason to a sharp halt with a fist wrapped in his shirt. Hauls him half-upright while Jason gasps and blinks and focuses on staying conscious, teeth bared. “You really want to do this with me?” the escort asks with a thrum of sharp, disapproving amusement. It's a razor's edge between genuine humour and trivial fury, and Jason can feel it scraping his skin with its lethal edge. 

He fumbles for the man's fingers, his grip too weak to pry them away, but the escort shakes him once, hard, nonetheless, and Jason spends the next moments blinking back nausea and vertigo. 

“You really want to do this, ?” the escort repeats, a deprecating quality to his level tone, and Jason closes his lips over his teeth. “You're high on Push and you're not even down. You're fucked. Do you really want me to do this to you?” 

Jason shakes his head minutely. Swallows and forces himself to go limp in his hold, against every instinctual muscle he has in his body. He hits the floor mat with a grunt of pain and an empty pair of lungs, and lays there for a few minutes recovering his breath before, “Up. .” 

Jason pushes upright, because he's lucid enough to know that this isn't going to go the way he wants it to. And the only way he gets out of this moderately unscathed is by playing their game. 

He hasn't even gotten onto his knees before the escort slides his fingers up over Jason's scalp and locks them into his hair. 

“,” he instructs, and Jason stumbles to keep pace, lets himself be manhandled across the room and shoved back into a sit between the inspector's knees. His swimming eyes focus long enough for him to make out the victorious gleam in those hazel eyes before the escort drags his world sideways. 

Jason jolts when his cheek comes into contact with the inspector's thigh, jerks back and earns a reprimanding yank at his hair follicles for his efforts. Forces himself to breathe through his nose and blink down at the man's knee as he stills against the coarse fabric of the trousers. 

“.”

A whine rings up through his throat, but Jason locks his muscles in place as the escort relinquishes the handful of hair. Steps back to watch him with an amused, piercing smile as the inspector leans over him and presses the blunt teeth of the comb into his hairline. Jason bleats a short, soft protest, but doesn't move, clenching his eyes shut as the man folds over his locks with clinical efficiency. 

“.” 

“,” Jason slurs in protest, but he gets the message when the escort flicks his wrist at the inspector's other knee. Groans and squeezes his eyes shut, and tilts his head over to the other side. Bites through his lip trying to ignore the sound and sensation of the comb scraping against his scalp. “Please stop,” he says hoarsely once the inspector sits back. 

“He's clean,” the man says grimly, the words resigned. 

“,” the escort commands without looking at him, and gestures to the row of subs for good measure. Jason doesn't really need the extra instruction. He stumbles in his haste to obey. “Good sub.” 

He tries not to let the praise etch its way down his spine, tries to shake off the way it feels settling against his skin. But he's on the precipice of going down and he's got nothing to defend himself with. So he sinks his head between his shoulders and pulls his knees up to his chest and tries to let his breathing drown out the escort's voice. Tries to imagine himself sinking back into the plastered besser blocks behind him and disappearing from sight and sound, unreachable, untouchable. 

Jason's rubbing fingers across his scalp, trying to press out the horrid sensation of the comb that lingers there when they finish up their inspection. The chair's folded up with a sharp snap and the inspector picks up an easy conversation about a recent patient of his as the escort leads him to the next roomful of subs. The door closes behind them with a ring of finality, and Jason's alone with nine other downed subs and a handful of rotating armed guards. 

He knows they don't care what he does as long as he doesn't injure another sub and doesn't cause trouble for them. So Jason rolls forward until his knees are biting into the hard vinyl, folds down over them and presses his forehead into the cold, stiff material. When that doesn't alleviate the building pressure in his chest and skull, Jason appeals to the nearest gun-toting figure. 

“,” he rasps into the vinyl, his eyes screwed shut. Jason knows they're listening, knows they hear him. Lets the solemn weight etch into his words as a pair of boots crinkle across the mat towards him. “.” And they oblige. 

 

* * *

 

Jason has never felt as humiliated as he does right now. Feels it in his lungs and his stomach and in the very core of him. Can't shake it out of his skin if he tried, and he _hates_ it. 

He's sitting in the middle of the room, curled forward as if making himself smaller will take the gazes of the armed security that lean boredly against the walls off of him. As if it will spare him from the sympathetic stolen glances of the subs who are lucid enough to recognise that he's being punished. 

Jason's in a low, consistent state of discomfort. His spine has been bowed for the better part of an hour, since this punishment began, and his tendons are making their displeasure known in the slow waves of pain that are radiating from his lower back and across his shoulder blades. The polycarbonate zip ties are cutting into his wrists every time he shifts, and his hips are protesting from trying to equalise his disbalanced legs. 

It's only now that it's beginning to edge into the territory of pain, and Jason hates, _hates_ , more than anything else about this entire fuck up, that it's getting him down. Is fighting it with every last morsel of lucidity that the Push hasn't managed to swallow up. Because he despises that he could be so desperate for a downscene that he'd take _pain_ as an indicator that he's being tended to, that he's garnished the doms' attentions enough that they'd consider subjecting him to this position. Like it's a recognition of his efforts. Like it's a reward. 

His jaw is aching from gritting his teeth for too long, and he presses hard snarls of air through them as he welds his eyelids shut. Refuses to open them because he doesn't even want to give them that. Point blank refuses to meet the delirious eyes of the sub opposite him, because he's terrified that he'll see his own gaze reflected back at him. 

Even though he doesn't want to, knows that under more rational circumstances he wouldn't, Jason despises the other sub. Hates that he slipped so quickly and effortlessly into a downscene the moment their little ruse was up, abandoned him here at the mercy of these merciless duals. Hates that he hates him, that he'd begrudge him an exit from this psychologically draining set up, that he'd insist that he suffer through this like Jason is. More than that, he hates that he's _jealous_ of the sub. Envious of how quickly he was able to go down, of how good and pliant and acquiescent he is under the doms' orders, of how much of a _good sub_ he is, because Jason's not. He's not and he hates it, and he hates that he hates it, because he doesn't _want_ to be good or a sub and he doesn't get a fucking choice in this, and it's eating at him. 

He can feel the other sub's limp wrists brushing against his shoulder blades with every inhale, trapped in the unrelenting zip ties. His left arm is draped over Jason's right shoulder, his other arm tucked under Jason's left arm. He feels overwhelmingly trapped, boxed in by the motionless limbs, and he knows that's the point, that that was their intention. Knows it and still hates it. Can't even summon the indifference to pretend he doesn't care and act like he doesn't want to peel the skin off his bare arms just to not have to feel the other sub's touch. 

Jason's own fists are balled against the other's back, stiff and locked in place as he makes the extra effort not to touch any more of the sub than he has to, than he's being forced to. He's leaning as far left as the diameter of his encircling arms will allow, just to avoid the sub's bowed head, the light wash of his even, slow breath across Jason's collarbone. 

It would be an embrace, if there were anything remotely voluntary about this pose. But Jason had thrown that away the instant he'd started twisting and thrashing, and they'd had to hold him violently still and cinch the zip ties around his trembling, bloodless fists. If he'd been smarter, if he'd been good and pliant and resigned like the other sub, then maybe he wouldn't be in such discomfort now. Maybe he could have focused on spacing his legs, on balancing with his right leg pressed flat against the vinyl and his left crooked over the other's right limb, and then he wouldn't be so out of sorts. 

A deep, stubborn part of him resents them for making him wish he'd been more pliant, for feeling like it's his fault that he's in this predicament. Another part is waxing contrition for the stupidity they had to endure as a result of his feeble escape attempt. 

It'd been a pathetic, last-ditch cry for help. Jason had known it wasn't going to work, had run the probability and the repercussions and every other rational excuse through his head and still arrived at the conclusion that he had to try. So he'd roped in the help of another sub and given it one hundred ten percent of his best effort. 

They'd gotten as far as the hallway before it had all come crashing down. Not that there was really that much to come crashing down. Their plan had been piecemeal and reactionary. It was sheer dumb luck that Jason had managed to make it that far. 

And this was what they had to show for it; a spectacle staged in the centre of the room, an example for the other would-be imitator subs. He can feel their gazes like pinpricks against his back, longs to relieve the itch but can't with his wrists bound as they are. 

To Jason's right, over the other sub's left shoulder, the door to the room opens and a handler toting a standard issue AK-203 shrugs into the room, saying to the nearest figure, “.” 

Jason swallows hard and tries to mentally prepare himself. He's aware that he's glaring something fierce, his brow beetled into a deep scowl at the thought that he's going to have to answer to _him_. His hands would be shaking if they weren't so taut already. 

He takes his fucking time coming to see them. Strolls into the room on a meandering gait, chats to the room supervisor before he deigns to circle the pair of trussed up subs. The escort looks less surprised and more coyly amused to see Jason. It's the only expression Jason catches before he fixes his eyes on his upraised kneecap and pointedly refuses to look farther. 

“Hello, ,” he says in a low tone, and Jason feels the disapproval all the way down through his spine. Hunches his shoulders against his own involuntary reaction, as if that will protect him from what's due. 

Jason can feel the escort's gaze running over his crooked, stiff arms and his bound wrists. From the corner of his eye he sees him turn back towards the door to ask the attending supervisor, “Why not just have them kneel on rice? Would have been easier.” 

The burly man shrugs, his enormous shoulders rising and falling with careless ease. “We had time,” is what he says in return, and Jason clenches his teeth harder. 

“So I see,” the escort purrs, and Jason can tell he approves. He flicks his wrist at the two nearest lackeys, steps back as he orders, “Cut the one on the left loose. Put him back with the others. Leave the other one to me.” 

Jason hears his breath hitch in his ears, squeezes his eyes shut so he doesn't have to focus on the proximity of the two huge figures that approach them. He focuses on the scrape of a knife handle against his shoulder blades as they sever the zip ties on the other sub's wrists. The manoeuvre and pull of his own still-bound limbs as they haul the sub out of the pact they've formed. 

Then it's just Jason sitting with his wrists hanging between his crooked knees and absolutely nothing else to separate him from the escort. The man watches him for a moment longer before he crouches down to Jason's height, sitting on his upraised heels and letting his hands dangle in his lap. When he speaks, his words are light and playful, underwritten by a disparaging warning. 

“You know, you should count your lucky stars buyers are as superficial as they are, or you would not have as many teeth as you do right now.” He reaches forwards, trailing the tip of a finger over Jason's cheekbone, and he jerks away from the contact with a sharp intake of breath. The escort allows it. “You've got a good face, . And buyers like good looking subs, so as much as I feel I need to, I'm not going to damage that pretty smile. But I am willing to mess up those pretty knees of yours on some rice. It might even help you get down faster.” 

Jason shudders and gulps in a harsh breath, let's it rattle out past his clenched teeth. Lets the pain remind him how fucking _close_ he'd come, and how fucking _stupid_ he was for ending up here. 

“I think we've given you too long of a leash, ,” the escort muses sympathetically, and it makes Jason's skin crawl. “So I'm going to need you to stop causing me trouble, and stop testing the patience of your handlers. Start behaving, before your leeway runs out completely. You're in a good spot, , you don't want to see how quickly this can go downhill.” 

When Jason pointedly doesn't acknowledge his words, and doesn't refute them either, he glances up at one of the handlers, nodding towards the back wall. 

“Get me his file.” 

Jason whines half a breath, and hunches his shoulders over his ears, as if he can recede away from the escort's pressing gaze. Glares at the floor mat for not yawning wide and swallowing him whole. 

The handler steps up to the sleeve tray nailed to the wall, beneath Jason's designation, and slides out the file inside, passing it into the escort's outstretched hand. The man takes it readily, and wastes no time thumbing through to the schedule at the back, the one that the handlers mark every time they shoot him up with Push. 

“When was your last top up, ?” 

Jason works some saliva down his dry throat before croaking lowly, “Three hours.” 

“Three hours ago,” the escort agrees, his eyes skimming the schedule before letting the file fall closed. “Three milligrams administered at eight a.m., just like clockwork. So why aren't you down, ?” 

Jason feels the anger shake up through him, jostling his shoulders while he swallows down the slew of words that are bruising the backs of his lips, aching to be flung at the escort. “Don't want to be,” is what presses out. 

“And that right there is your problem, ,” the escort points out with great levity, as if he doesn't even notice the way Jason's fists are trembling with rage. “What you _want_ is irrelevant now. You don't even know what we're putting into you,” he adds as he presses the edge of a nail into the side of Jason's shoulder, where a handful of puncture scars litter the muscle. Jason growls and shuffles aside. The escort just watches him. “And you think you know what's best for you? You think you're working with all the facts here? Trust me when I say we know exactly what we're doing, . I know exactly where you're at chemically, exactly where you sit on the bell curve. I know that you've got another two hours in you before you start to come back up; another two hours of good, workable time.” 

He shifts his weight around, relieving the aching balls of his feet as he pushes upright. Jason watches him rise through a glower. 

“So here's what we're going to do,” he says, his tone blunt and unwavering. No room for argument, no option for dissent. Jason feels himself withdraw from the severity of it. “You're going to go down, now, and we're going to run you through a withdrawal cycle.” 

Jason's head snaps up, his eyes flashing in equal measures of betrayal and reluctance. The escort doesn't waver, his stare level. 

He knows what a withdrawal cycle is, has been through approximately six such cycles during his forty-eight days here. Three days on Push, topped up every five to nine hours with an intramuscular injection. Three days off, where his system flares up in a brief fever and he shudders through the aching shakes while his body finds it equilibrium again. Then rinse and repeat. 

It's to bookend the addiction, Jason knows. Worked that one out pretty early on. Why else would you put perfectly merchandisable subs through the wringer every week? It wasn't efficient, wasn't profitable - unless the alternative wasn't more so. Push is a neat solution to a messy situation, and it comes with a price. Buyers don't want a Push-dependent sub who'll run up the bills. 

So they wean them off it on a regular schedule, give them just enough time to work it out of their system before they dose them up again, repeat the cycle anew. Use the workable three days to improve their proficiency for going down, for narrowing their proclivity for drops. Good, usable subs on clockwork scenes. That's what brings the money in. 

Jason knows exactly what a withdrawal feels like. Has seen long-term Push-reliant subs restrained in hobbles to stop them degloving their arms or breaking bones. He hasn't come close enough to need them, yet, but he can empathise. Knows that there's not a hell of a lot a sub wouldn't give to not have to spend hours curled on the floor mats shivering like they've been iced and running a one-hundred-and-five fever. Knows that's usually why they sequester them away to one of the three closet-sized off-rooms to let them work through it where they can't rile up the other subs. Knows why they stagger their cycles so there's never more than three in the off-rooms at any one time. 

Knows that he doesn't want to go through that shit while he's down. Doesn't want to fight back his body's insistent demands that he recuperate in favour of fulfilling some dom's menial request. Knows the outcome of this is going to be a sheer drop and a two-day recovery, _if_ he's lucky. 

“No,” he says, and is quietly surprised when the escort doesn't immediately strike him. 

“Yes,” the escort answers. “I want to see how well you can behave, little .” 

Jason's already shaking his head. “Not in withdrawal. I can't.” 

“You _will_ ,” the escort replies with the curve of an amused smile, and crouches down to his height again. Gets in his space like he owns it and it's a privilege if Jason's allowed more than a foot of breathing room. Jason's too busy reeling from the proximity to formulate a retort. “Because if you don't, then you become _my_ problem. And you know how scarce my time is. I don't have the same time to spare for your acting out.” 

Jason shudders involuntarily, doesn't break his stare, fixed like a deer in headlights. 

“And if _I_ have to train you, and not your patient handlers here, then I will saddle you up with a neat little trigger.” 

Jason jolts violently at the thought, ice plummeting through his lungs and straight into his stomach. His throat is unbearably dry, his eyes unnaturally wide. 

The escort smiles softly. “You know what a trigger is then, I take it? If you don't start behaving, , I'm going to train a trigger into you and you will go down at the drop of a hat. You will go down when you're eating. You will go down when you're asleep. You will go down when you're walking or singing or doing whatever inane activity I want you to be filling your time with. Basically, you will go down whenever I so wish, whenever tickles my dominant fancies.” 

Jason wants to retch, is skating pretty close to needing to. Is only vaguely aware that the zip ties have bitten into his wrists hard enough to start drawing blood with all the hard, absent straining he's been doing. 

The escort can see he's made an impact. His deprecating, raised brows wash into a more neutral expression. “You don't want me to have to train you, . You don't get to come back from my training. And the sort of buyers who buy _my_ subs aren't the sort of masters you want.” 

He reaches out an empty hand, wraps it around the base of Jason's throat, and Jason lets him, slides pliantly into the touch with a numb, stiff stare and holds there as he squeezes experimentally. The escort smiles softly, knowingly, and loosens his grip, satisfied. Doesn't pull his hand off, not yet. 

“You're going to start behaving, . Starting from now. No more waves, no more trouble. No more disruptions. One more instance of acting out, and you become _my_ problem. Understand?” 

Jason is shivering, the knob of his throat knocking against the escort's hand. He tries to nod, but his neck's too stiff, too tight, and it becomes a harsh, hobbled gesture. 

The escort withdraws his hand, meets his gaze square on and repeats, “?” 

“,” Jason answers hoarsely. 

“,” the escort purrs, and straightens, beckoning over the handler hovering nearby. “Cut him out of those ties.” 

 

* * *

 

“It's my birthday,” the escort murmurs, soft and contemplative. 

Jason keeps his gaze fixed on the man's throat, unresponsive. It's as low as he can get away with without looking directly at his eyes. And Jason can't usually stomach having to look at his eyes. 

He does, when he needs to, when he has to make the effort to prove he's down and compliant and malleable. They like it more when he looks at them. Maybe it's the openness. Maybe it's the vulnerability. 

“I'm thirty today,” the man says pensively. “How old are you, ?” 

“Twenty-nine,” Jason answers immediately. It's in his file. They'd gotten that out of him while he was down, the same way they'd gotten what he could remember of his medical history. It doesn't even feel like something worth protecting now, not compared to everything else he's given up. 

The escort hums thoughtfully to himself. “You're not going to remember this.” 

It's not an order. It's an observation. Jason keens softly, but it's just a remnant of an older time, a habitual reluctance that he feels nothing more than a nostalgic obligation to anymore. 

He's surprised that that doesn't earn him a reprimand. Usually his unprompted vocalisations are met with a coy, “Cut that out, ”, and a reprimanding twenty push ups to sink the message in. 

The training's not unusual. It's a doubly beneficial low stakes punishment. Amplifies the message with the repetitive strain so they don't feel the need to commit the trespass again, and keeps their blood work functional, gets the chemicals flowing. Helps to keep subs centred when they've been down this long. 

Turns out they do a lot of domestic tasks while they're down. The handlers tend to use it as a way to keep them busy, have an outlet and a direction for their downscene service. They start their days with a morning workout that's barely more straining than light calisthenics. Then they wash down the floor mats with mops and detergent, and prop them up to dry. Once a week they do a two hour exercise session so the handlers can monitor their general health and mobility, and every month they're given a quick medical rundown to ensure they're not contracting any viruses or infections that could spread to the other subs. 

The only domestic activity that they're notably lacking in is cooking. Presumably because they want to limit the subs' access to sharp and heavy implements. All their meals are catered for, and it's not a unique occurrence for Jason to find himself shovelling food at the behest of a handler in the midst of a downscene, fast enough to give him a stomach ache later.  

Jason hasn't given them any reason to reprimand him for a while now. His trademark rebellion had been weaned out of him in the thirty days that had followed the escort's threat. It's been another thirty days since then, and the closest he comes to genuine resistance now is the reflexive hitch he sometimes snags on when they put him down on the tail end of a bad withdrawal. 

Jason's been down for damn near twenty hours at this point. It's nudging a personal record, but the pair of them have been building his tolerance in one-on-one sessions for almost a month now, so Jason's hardly surprised. It's all motions. He goes to sleep down and - aside from a few degrees of course correction to cement the scene when he initially surfaces - he wakes up down. Rolls straight through the eight hours like clockwork and emerges on the other side like it was no time at all. He runs through the scenes like he's on autopilot; he lets his body pick through the commands without the interference of his consciousness hanging over the scene like a starving vulture, until now there's barely a lapse between input and output. 

The escort's noticed, as Jason had known he would. In the last few sessions, he's taken to injecting a level of intellectuality into the scenes, to force Jason to stay present and concentrate on the commands. Bring himself above baseline function to where he's nearly skimming the surface of his downscene, to where he actually needs to concentrate on keeping himself under for the approval of the dom. 

The escort had made him give him an English lesson last time. He'd had pretty flawless English to begin with, which had stumped Jason at first. They'd spent the session with Jason explaining the nuances between concepts such as 'honour' and 'loyalty' and 'integrity'. Jason had skimmed the surface of his downscene for forty-five minutes until the escort had finally let him succumb to blank obedience. It wasn't even out of a desire to punish him. He'd been genuinely invested in Jason's explanations, had suspended Jason's needs in favour of his own until Jason had been close to retching and the escort had finally, begrudgingly conceded that he should let him off. 

It seems like tonight they've traded intellectualism for sentimentality. 

“Have you got siblings, ?” 

Jason nods, hums an emotionless, “Yes, sir.” 

“What are their names?” 

Jason rattles it off like it's nothing but a name to him. They're just facts, skimming the top of his consciousness. 

“Just the one then? I've got a younger brother,” the escort says, and Jason doesn't think he was even listening to the response. He's neck deep in his own thoughts; something has his attention tonight, and it's not the sub kneeling at his feet. “Have you got younger brothers?” 

“No,” Jason replies, and amends when the escort glances at him, waiting for a specification, “Just a sister.”  

“How old is she?” 

It takes him a few seconds to do the math, to scrape together his focus. “Twenty-five.” 

The escort grunts a soft acknowledgement. “My brother's fifteen.” 

If Jason was more coherent, he'd probably be repulsed by the parallel. He'd probably feel stifled by the sentimentality the escort is dragging into this scene. Their sessions aren't entirely detached, there's always far too much emotion involved for Jason to churn through them that easily. But they've never had this much depth before. 

Jason breathes in deep through his nose, holds it for three seconds and then exhales. Lets the itch slide off his back like he's practiced doing, and lets himself sink. The escort glances at him once, no doubt mildly curious about what could have him surfacing. But there's something else playing on his mind, and Jason takes the backseat again. 

“He's a dual,” the escort says, though Jason hadn't asked. They're alone. There's no one else to prompt him but the enigmatic cogwork of his own mind. “My old man thinks he's too s-leaning, but I keep telling him he's just a kid. He's got a while before he needs to work himself out yet.” 

Jason doesn't know why he's telling him this. Doesn't know why it's relevant other than to teach him to be grateful when a dom deigns him worthy enough to be privy to the inner workings of their mind. Jason doesn't really care how or why a dom's inclinations swing the ways they do, so long as he's not expected to comment on them. So long as he can slip into that numb space where he just _does_ and doesn't have to think about doing it. 

“It's just the generational gap,” the escort explains offhandedly as he sits back in his chair, his knees sprawling a bit more widely to account for the shift in balance. “He kicked up a fuss over my sister being a sub too, but she came out fine.” 

Jason mentally jolts, skips back to that admission with blossoming surprise. Logically, statistically, at least one child in three should be a sub or manifest s-type tendencies. He just never considered that someone in _this_ industry - the kind of industry that abducts and psychologically flays subs until they're raw and malleable - could have a sub sibling and not feel even a tiny bit remorseful about their actions. Especially someone with as much practice in sculpting beaten down subs as the escort evidently has. 

The escort catches the flicker of surprise in Jason's gaze, because he huffs in soft amusement and says, “I know what you're thinking, , I can see it. How can I treat you like this and go home and look my little sub sister in the eye without feeling guilty? I'll tell you how, : the difference is that you're here and she's not. And that's the only difference that matters. You're here, to be trained and bought and sold, and she's enrolled in International School, to rub elbows with diplomats' daughters.” 

His words barely make an impact anymore, not when Jason's already worn down by their session as far as he is. If he was closer to a drop, then maybe they'd have some weight. But the escort's not even putting any malignance behind the words; they're said like facts, lined with his usual cynical derision. 

“We've got a potential buyer coming in a few weeks,” the escort muses aloud, only half-watching Jason's reactions now. “Looks like an associate, browsing on the cheques of a couple of bigger names.” 

He leans forward until his elbows are braced on his knees, and runs the digits of his right hand through Jason's hair. The man circles slow ministrations into the crown of his head, and Jason doesn't react except to stiffen. 

“If you're lucky and behave well, I'm thinking I might make you my prime exhibit,” the man murmurs into his ear, and Jason feels a distant part of him recoiling at the sensation. But he's long gotten over the sensation of his skin crawling, has acclimated to the warm wash of breath in the last few months. “Would you like that, ?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Tell me in Serbian.” 

“.” 

“Say it to me in ,” he instructs with a small smile, eyes half mast as he pets Jason's hair. 

“.” 

The escort chuckles to himself. “That sounds like a cop-out, . But I'll take it. You're nearly up, anyway. We're going to have to step up your training if you're going to be ready by the time our guest shows.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

The man sighs and climbs laboriously to his feet, taking a few minutes to stretch. His bones ache and pop, and Jason can only sit and think about the pins and needles in his folded legs that succumbed to numb buzzing thirty minutes ago. “Stand up. .” 

Jason climbs to his feet and shakes the sensation back into his legs. The escort waits while he regains his balance, and then leads them out of the side room and back down the corridor towards Jason's homeroom. Each methodical, deliberate step brings him another notch out of the downscene, and by the time the escort passes him over to the lead handler, he's almost completely up. 

“He's going to need hobbles,” the escort advises, without any malcontent. Jason silently agrees. He does more often than not these days. 

He holds out his wrists without needing to be prompted, sliding into the leather loops. Waits while the handler tightens them snug against his skin and buckles them in place. Tests the length of the hobbles more out of reflex and habit than curiosity, then slides down into a sit against the nearest wall of the closet and presents his ankles for the same treatment. 

The escort watches all this with impassive interest, leaned against the doorframe of the off-room. Their sessions usually end up here, because Jason's drops have always been swift, and he always gets them after a scene with the escort. And, because he's shit out of luck, they'd managed to somehow time the drop with a withdrawal cycle, so he's guaranteed to gouge something in his uninhibited state. The hobbles are a privilege, really, and Jason slides into the ease of them like he's pulling on shoes. 

“That's really good, ,” the escort says firmly, smiling. He's a man who takes satisfaction in his work, and in its outcomes. He likes the labour, but enjoys the fruit too. 

Jason hums his gratitude and leans his head back against the plaster, lets his eyes slip closed. He's not tired, but if he can shave a few hours off the drop by being unconscious when it sets in, then he'll take what he can get. 

The escort lingers in the doorway with the handler; Jason can feel both their gazes on him, but he doesn't open his eyes. 

“Clean him up a bit,” the escort instructs sternly. “He'll need a shave soon. I'm going to take over his sessions for the next fortnight or so. I want to see if I can get him north of thirty-six hours by the time our guest arrives. Make sure he's fed and ready before I start; I don't want to waste time.” 

“Yes, sir,” the handler confirms, his booted heels snapping to attention, and Jason drifts. 

 

* * *

 

Life falls into a sort of familiar monotony, and Jason couldn't be more content to have it that way. Summer swells and falls away with small fanfare, petering out as August waxes and wanes and September looms with the promise of cool evenings and a colder winter. 

Mt Vernon hosts its very first Fall Equinox Festival, and decks out Fort Hunt for the occasion. Local vendors carve the park into avenues and alleys, and even the battlements are wreathed in twinkling fairy lights and burgundy leaves until the whole place is glowing burnt orange. 

Tim insists they attend, dragging Jason through the dew-wet grass beneath hand-carved overheads claiming homemade wares. They stop to admire the knick knacks and taste samples from the Virginian wine belt, wrapped up in the churning crowd and lively festivities. Jason takes it all on board with a wry smile and a complacent demeanour, enjoying the sight of an ecstatic Tim as he admires some wooden figurines. It's all very quaint and surreal, and Jason lets Tim guide him through the bustle with abandon. 

He's gotten a lot more complacent with the man since Tim let him put him down. The scene, as well as the conversation that had followed it, have made a marked improvement on their relationship. Tim's back on speaking terms with Steph, and he warms up to her like they've been long-time friends. It blows Jason's mind to realise that they've been friends longer than he's known Tim, that there's this whole slice of Steph's world that Jason hadn't known about. 

He likes seeing them interact. It's carefree and considerate, and they sweep him up in their brash competitiveness. Jason even cooks dinner for Tim's other siblings when he finally strikes up the courage to introduce them. He likes Dick; he's enthusiastic and considerate to temper Wally's energetic boldness. He's nothing like Tim, except that sometimes they unconsciously share mannerisms, like the way Dick smiles to himself when he thinks Wally isn't looking, and the way Tim grins as he cleans up the dirty dishes in the sink once the apartment is empty but for the two of them. 

So the weeks roll into an appreciated monotony, and Jason learns some of Tim's vices. Like how he hates coffee but can't function without three cups a day, so he loads them with enough sugar to sweeten a lemon. And how he hates all sports except baseball, and he still has his middle school trophies from when he was in a small-time league. And that he swears like a sailor and doesn't sleep properly and has memorised the entire astrological chart and unashamedly loves fall like it's a long lost brother returning home from war. 

Tim buys himself one of those flower crowns. It's a wreath of yellow and orange leaves, spackled with gaudy red, plastic berries. He drapes it over his hair like a crown, and it only serves to illuminate the paleness of his skin all the more. 

“You really like fall, don't you?” Jason says with broad amusement. 

“I am a fall baby,” Tim declares, as if that justifies his stupidly huge grin. 

“More than the average person, it seems.” 

“It's _fall_ ,” Tim emphasises, his blue eyes shining. “How can you not love it? There's so much colour, and all the best desserts, and God, the _food_ -” 

Jason snags a hand around his waist and tugs him out of the path of a server with a mountainous tray of pumpkin-spiced mulled wine. Tim's surprised yelp is cut short as Jason offers the disgruntled server an apologetic smile. 

It's not until he glances down at Tim that Jason realises he's inadvertently pulled him flush against his own body. He feels the rush of blood brighten his cheeks immediately, and Tim, ever a dickhead, purrs, “Hold me closer, dreamboat.” 

Jason jerks his hands away as if scalded, scowling as Tim chortles. 

“Come on, let's get some gluhwein into you,” Tim teases, offering his hand. Jason hesitates for the briefest moment, before winding his fingers between Tim's. “There you go.” 

“Don't be patronising,” Jason growls. 

“Wouldn't dream of it, patron.” 

Jason's nails bite into Tim's knuckles in brief reproach, and Tim takes it with a snide chuckle, dragging him down the nearest crowded avenue. Jason stumbles into a few people's shoulders, because he's too busy thinking about how easily Tim had taken his hand, and how warm it feels in his palm. 

The man moves through relationships like they're sheets of water, and Jason can sort of see why he's so likeable; beneath all his dysfunctional bullshit, he's got a good heart on him, and he tends to latch himself around people that he cares about. It's not hard to see why all of Tim's siblings are equally exasperated and fond of him, and Jason can empathise. 

He doesn't push, even when Jason feels protective and possessive. For all his dom failings, he's remarkably content to let Jason set the pace in whatever it is they have between them. And Jason can appreciate that level of trust and respect, clings to it with both fists. 

He honestly doesn't know what to call this. It's not a relationship, not in the traditional sense. They keep to their own, and Tim knows which boundaries aren't his to cross. Jason does too, even though Tim seems less restrictive over his past. There's only two topics Jason tends to notice some resistance over; Tim's life immediately before the Bureau, and his first significant relationship. But Jason _gets_ baggage, so he leaves that stone unturned and is entirely happy to keep it that way, so long as that's what Tim wants. 

Jason supposes what they have is best described as close roommates. It makes his stomach churn with flighty nerves if he tries to pin it down more than that. 

Tim put him down a week after their scene. And then again a month later. Jason had dropped both times, but Jason's drops are as consistent as a Swiss wristwatch, so it doesn't really reflect on the content of the scenes. They'd been fine, as far as scenes go. Tim had been patient and calming, and they hadn't done anything more strenuous than talk him down, with a light head massage thrown in. 

He's getting more comfortable with the whole process, but that doesn't silence the nagging doubt that sort of vulnerability brings to the table. It's not that he thinks Tim would ever take advantage of him; it's just a constant pressure weighing in the back of his mind, irrational and remnant. 

So he's making the effort to trust Tim more, and trust people in general again. And maybe he kind of likes the attention, and the effort. Maybe he likes the actual, personal consideration that Tim drapes him in, instead of the clinical detached personalism he'd received at the facility. It's been awhile since Jason's had someone genuinely watching his back - not since his time patrolling with Roy. 

And Tim has that exasperating habit of growing on people, so by the time Jason had realised that he didn't totally hate the man's company, Tim was already doing unnerving shit like cosying up to him on the sofa and holding his hands. It's a new, tentative thing that they've got going, and Jason isn't one hundred percent certain that he knows what it means, but he's not adverse to it. 

So he lets Tim do dumb shit like take him to equinox festivals, and buy him mulled wine, and jerk him around a little bit. Because it's nice to feel like he's not fragile or commodifiable, that he's expendable and human and Tim's making the most of his time with Jason. And it amuses him to see Tim indulging his insatiable need to provide for those that matter most to him. 

By the time the bluegrass band has bowed off the stage and the festivities have reluctantly ground to a halt, Jason's about five mulled wines down and considering whether he can convince the vendor to give him one more as a last call. Tim drags him away, flagging them an uber back to the apartment, and he spends the whole ride dragging a teasing, ticklish nail up Jason's arm and chewing on his lips. 

Jason's hand is a vice around Tim's wrist as they shove open the doors and step into the lobby elevator. Then Jason's free hand jumps to Tim's waist, and he draws him into a rushed kiss before he can rethink it. When he pulls back, Tim blinks at him, stunned and amazed, and Jason feels energised by that look alone. 

So he leans down again, and this time the kiss is more exploratory, slow and revelling as Tim's hands cup his neck and Jason's palms slip under the edge of his shirt to fuse with his alcohol-heated skin. 

The elevator chiming is what causes them to lurch apart, and Jason snorts a laugh as Tim drags him down the hallway, over-eager. They're barely a step inside before Tim's seizing his lips again, rough and insistent. Jason manhandles him back against the front door, which Tim kicks closed with an absent heel. 

Tim pulls back first, his cheeks flushed and his eyes half-lidded. He reaches up, transferring the leaf crown from his own head to Jason's. “Hey stranger,” he purrs, hooking his arms around Jason's neck. 

“,” Jason replies with the crook of a grin. 

Tim groans and laughs. “Fuck, I love when you speak French.” 

Jason smiles and leans forward to suck a sharp kiss into the curve of Tim's jaw. “You're drunk.” 

“I'm horny,” Tim corrects, and cants away when Jason nips the sensitive skin there. “Fuck, okay, hang on.” 

Jason pulls back with a concerned frown, and Tim laughs at his expression. 

“Don't look at me like that. It's not that. I just want to actually, properly ask, just so we're clear: do you want to do this?” 

“Just so we're clear,” Jason retorts, and dips down to tug Tim's earlobe between his teeth, purely because he has a running bet with Steph that Tim's a screamer. Tim gives him the most delectable, choked moan. Jason pulls back with a dark chuckle, lips brushing his heated skin as he purrs, “ _Yes_.” 

“That's good enough for me,” Tim growls lowly, and then his hands are around the edge of Jason's shirt, tugging it up his torso. 

“Shit,” Jason hisses with distinct pleasure, and jerks his arms up to help Tim wrestle the shirt over his shoulder blades. It disappears somewhere over the other side of the room, instantly forgotten. 

Jason's hands are immediately on Tim's hips, shoving him back towards the living room. The laurel is lost somewhere between the foyer and the coffee table, and Jason can't spare the concentration to remember where. He backs him up onto the sofa with slightly too much force, and Tim sprawls back with a look of shocked arousal. Jason slides a hand up under his shirt, seizing his lips in a kiss as his nails bite and Tim moans. 

“Fuck me,” Tim mutters to himself, hands jumping to yank up his shirt. Jason doesn't even wait for it to clear his collarbone, painting open-mouthed kisses across Tim's pale chest as Tim whines and hastens his brief battle with the clothing. 

His hands fly up, lacing around Jason's neck and hairline, and tug him up sharply to meet his insistent lips. His knees bracket Jason's hips, and Jason's only too happy to oblige, rolling forward into him. 

Tim stutters and swears incoherently. “Pants, off, now,” he growls, fingers slicing into Jason's hips as the latter laughs. 

“If you insist,” Jason purrs, and slides down to his knees in front of the couch, knocking Tim's hands away as his own jump to Tim's jeans. 

“That's not what I meant,” Tim answers, but he doesn't sound off-put by Jason's interpretation. He tightens his fingers into Jason's mussed hair and lifts his hips to help Jason drag the denim off. 

“You're not going to complain,” Jason points out, and hoists the article somewhere behind them. His fingernails scrape across Tim's hip bones, and the other man whines and shuffles beneath his ministrations as Jason shucks his briefs with the same enthusiasm. Then his hands wrap around the backs of Tim's thighs, and he meets his gaze with a glimmer of poignant mischief as he runs a stripe of his tongue up the underside of Tim's cock. 

“Fuck you,” Tim forces out, and keens sharply when Jason mouths at the base of his shaft, wrapping a coarse palm around the head. His nails scrape across Jason's scalp, his fingers light and jittery. “You're such a fucking _tease_.” 

Jason just laughs and settles on his knees between Tim's legs. Tim looks like he's in _pain_ , and Jason toys with the idea of dragging this out just to see how much Tim will let him get away with. Tim seems to come to the same realisation as him, because he glares and his hand fists on the back of Jason's head. 

“Don't you dare stop,” he mutters, but there's a hint of desperation beneath the thick layer of authority. 

Jason just grins and presses the pads of his fingers harder into Tim's thighs, lets his lips brush over the man's sensitive skin as he murmurs back, “Make me.” 

Tim hesitates for the briefest moment, really _looks_ at him, like he's trying to work out if he's allowed to bring dynamic play into this. Wondering if Jason's going to yank that out from under him. Wondering if that's a thing Jason would even trust him to try, and he can see Tim's more than eager for it. And that he's terrified that he's going to fuck this up for him, for Jason. 

So Jason runs his tongue over his lips deliberately, slowly, and says, “Please, Tim.” 

Tim's eyes blow dark with lust, then he's guiding Jason's head into his lap, and Jason's all too keen to comply. 

It's messy and fast and altogether uncontained, but neither of them can muster a single solid fuck to give. Because somehow Jason's managing to ring sharp, soft little sounds out of Tim's throat with just the motions his lips are making, and that fills him with such a fucking rush that he doesn't even care that he's on his knees beneath another man. It only takes him maybe forty seconds before Tim's tugging insistently at Jason's hair, and Jason sits back with faint dismay. 

“Stop, stop, stop, fuck,” Tim gasps, and blinks up at the ceiling while Jason sits on his heels and waits, the hand still fisted at the back of his head. He's grinning, thrilled that he could make Tim looked so fucking wrecked with such a simple act. “That's not going to last long.” 

“Do a guy's ego a solid?” Jason suggests, aware that it's going to set him off, and Tim's chin dips down to fix him with a horrified, stern glare at the notion. 

“Absolutely not,” he says lowly, and shuffles to drag Jason upright, lips jumping to the expanse of his bared throat as he rises obediently. “Your ego doesn't need it.” 

Jason groans and twists out of his grip, seizing his lips in a harsh, bruising kiss. It's all teeth and tongue, until Jason pulls back and asks breathlessly, “You got a condom?” 

Tim blinks at him, snorts. “Yeah, in the jeans you threw across the damn room.” 

Jason rolls his eyes, and wraps his palm around the hand that's at the back of his head, prying it off gently. He brings it around to his lips, pressing a chaste kiss to them while he meets Tim's stunned gaze. “Give me two,” he instructs, and Tim unfurls his hand obediently so that Jason can draw them into his mouth. 

He makes quick work of them, lathering them while Tim watches with rapturous intrigue. Then he hands Tim's fingers back to himself and pushes to his feet. 

“You know what to do with those.” 

Tim might mutter, “Asshole,” at his turned back, but Jason takes it with a smirk as he stands and casts around for the discarded jeans. He spots them slung over the back of one of the dining chairs, and dives immediately into one of the front pockets. 

“Left pocket,” Tim calls from back on the sofa, and Jason can hear the hitch of arousal in his tone. He slides out the foil square and tears it open as he turns back to Tim. And freezes. 

Tim's two fingers deep in himself, sprawled back against the pillows with his free wrist hanging limply over the back of the sofa, a look of deep satisfaction painted on his flushed face. He glances over at Jason where he stares, laughing breathlessly through a cocky, immeasurably pleased smile. 

“Are you coming, patron?” 

And Jason's expression of dumbfounded appreciation must translate, because Tim blushes and sits up a little straighter. Jason crosses the room in three harried strides, bending down to kiss him again as Tim moans and winds his free hand into Jason's hair. 

Neither of them can stand to drag it out for much longer, because Tim pushes him back reluctantly and pulls his hands free. “How do you want me, patron?” 

Oh, _that_ thought sends a rush of blood downwards, and Jason smiles, nipping at Tim's jawline. “Turn over, chest on the back of the sofa for me.” 

Tim almost rolls his eyes at Jason's eagerness, but he concedes anyway, resting his forearms across the tops of the cushions as he glances back at Jason with an amused smile. “You're getting a kick out of this, aren't you?” 

“Wouldn't be worth it if I wasn't,” Jason purrs back, and plants a line of kisses down Tim's spine that have him bowing into the cushions. His head falls, his forehead pressing hard as he breathes a hum of contentment, and Jason puts one knee on the sofa to steady himself, trailing a hand down Tim's hip as he lines up. He rolls on the condom, a broken sigh filtering up through his lips. 

Then Jason pauses to enjoy the sight of Tim beneath him, head dipped and neck exposed, thighs trembling in the slight chill. Tim whines from up on the back of the sofa, the sound needy and questioning. 

Jason chuckles, low and throaty. “How long has it been since you were on the receiving end?” 

“Literal fucking years,” Tim growls impatiently, managing to sound indignant beneath his desperation. “Can we please not add another?” 

Jason presses a kiss to the base of Tim's spine, revelling in the gooseflesh that ripples up his back at the sensation. Then he slides in. 

Even with the condom lubricated, it's a slow drag, and Tim exhale is long and drawn out as he leans into Jason's hips. Jason layers himself over Tim's back, bracing one hand on the cushions of the sofa beside Tim's head as he murmurs raggedly in his ear, “You good, ?” 

“ _Move_ ,” Tim insists, soft and strained, and Jason obliges, revelling in the sharp groan that rumbles up through the other man's chest at the sensation. Jason mouths at his neck, guiding the hand on Tim's hip down with quiet, sure insistency. Tim dips his spine, arching beneath him as Jason sets a steady rhythm. 

Then he shifts a bit, and rocks into the man beneath him, and Tim keens sharply. 

Jason doesn't pause, but he does smirk into the man's hairline, huffing a soft breath of warm air. “Yeah, Tim, that's it.” 

“Holy shit,” Tim chokes, and withers beneath him, his breathing sharp. His fists clench on the sofa cushions, strangling. Jason wraps his fingers over them and sucks a hickey into Tim's neck while the other man whines loudly. 

At some point, articulation fails, and Tim succumbs to garbled swearing and heavy pants as Jason marks every spare freckle he can find with a blooming blue mark. Tim tastes like salt and sweat against his roaming lips. When Tim barely has the strength to hold himself upright, Jason winds a hand under his stomach and wraps a firm hand around his dick, and Tim practically wails. 

He's not long to follow, and they collapse in a panting heap over the back of the sofa, legs useless. 

Three days later, Tim puts him down while alternating between whispering sweet praises into his hipbones and sucking him off. It's all Jason can do to wrap his hands around the bottom of the headboard and scream through it. And yeah, Jason had heard that orgasms in a subscene were pretty fucking great, but he had no idea that they were to die for. Hadn't had cause to believe it til now. 

It's so pristine, so perfect that Jason doesn't even drop afterwards. Not even a bad mood to wash over and stain the moment. He just lies there, panting and shaking with the remnants of afterglow while he stares up at the ceiling and Tim sleepily burrows into his side, half-wrapped in all the blankets. And if he lays there grinning giddily into the dark for near on two hours, then no one's any the wiser. 

 

* * *

 

When Jason sees Tim the next morning, he's standoffish and hard to pin down. Won't spend any time longer than he needs to throw together an espresso and flee the kitchen, abandoning Jason at the counter. Even forgets his two sugars as he dashes back to his room under Jason's confused, crooked brow. 

His immediate, reflexive assumption is that he's fucked up somehow. That he said something or did something in the scene to make Tim uncomfortable, but he can't for the life of him remember what it is. He feels betrayed somewhat, a deep-seated aching hurt rattling through him for the rest of the day while he racks his brain and tries to work out what he's done to earn this detached backlash. Works himself into an irritable enough self-hatred-fuelled state that he feels the need to work it out of his system physically. 

It's not until he's ringing up his third rep and trudging over to the sandbags for the fifth time that Jason figures it out. The workout probably cleared his head; it usually does. He had a habit of retiring to the training rooms, back when he was a cop and he was assigned a particularly lengthy investigation. His brain finds the time to reorganise and compartmentalise while the rest of him is busy, so he's a frequent patron of the lobby gym. 

His tentative theory fully formulates as his wrapped knuckles crunch against the hanging bag, and Jason freezes. Pants through a few wet, exerted breaths as his mind lays it out in a neat flowchart, and then he floors right past denial and into sheer anger, because he's _furious_. 

With Tim, for playing on his self-admonishment and introversion as a way to space out having to confront him about it. With himself, for immediately assuming this was his fault and fucking letting him. 

He's jittering on the elevator ride up, his newly freed hands blistered and red with the recent workout. He shuffles from foot-to-foot enough that his elevator companions have begun passing him odd, sideways glances. He probably looks like he's going to launch into a flat sprint down the next hallway. Jason hikes his backpack higher up on his shoulder and tries to pin his feet flat to the floor for the last few stops upward, ducking the less polite of the stares. 

Jason all but kicks in the apartment door, dumping his backpack in the same motion as his gaze swings, alighting on Tim's open bedroom door and then catching on the movement in the kitchen. Tim startles at his vehemency, but Jason's already blocking his exit by the time he's finished hastily emptying his half-drunk mug into the kitchen sink. 

“Are you okay?” Tim asks hesitantly, a notch of concern appearing in his brow, and Jason clenches his hands into fists to stop them getting too active. 

“You going to tell me?” Jason asks sharply, and watches Tim balk for the barest fraction of a second before that practiced poker mask settles against his features. 

“What are you talking about?” 

“You were going to let me stew in this, were you?” Jason demands, and there's a remorseful quality to the way Tim's Adam's apple bobs against his throat, but its not self-assigned. Jason's gaze narrows. “All day?” 

“I was hoping for a few more days, actually,” Tim mutters, aiming for levity. It ratchets Jason's rage up another few degrees, and Tim must see the ire in his expression, because he withdraws slightly. 

His next words are snarled. “How long exactly? A week? You were going to let me think this was my fault for a _week_?” 

The first genuine strike of confusion darkens Tim's expression. “What? No-” 

“You're an asshole,” Jason snaps, and spins on his heel, snagging his backpack and beelining for his room. He doesn't want to hear Tim's excuses, doesn't want to know how he rationalised that letting Jason think that he'd fucked up a perfectly good scene was an acceptable route to take. 

Tim follows him to the doorway of his room, glances down at the edge of the carpet where it meets the tile, and hesitates there. Unsure of whether he's permitted into this haven that Jason holds dear. It's unbelievably considerate, and it pisses Jason off immeasurably that he can be so dense in some areas and entirely not in others at the same damn time. 

“I didn't mean to make you think it was your fault,” Tim starts, and Jason considers whether it's possible to break someone's nose by slamming a door shut in their face. Something about his demeanour must tip Tim off, because his pace picks up. “It's not your fault, I promise. It's not. I didn't mean to let you think that. I just needed more time to work out how-” 

“I thought I'd fucked up,” Jason snaps, stilling suddenly. He meets Tim's gaze, hands frozen over his half-unpacked backpack. “I thought I'd done something in our scene to fuck this all up. And I haven't- I haven't felt like that since _them_.” 

Tim's stare softens into sharp remorse, and Jason doesn't want to see it. Hates the pity there. 

His gaze snaps back down to the backpack. “You were going to let me think I'd fucked us up. Whether you meant to or not, you were going to let me feel like that for- for however long it usually takes you to pull your head out of your ass and deal with your shit.” 

“I'm sorry,” Tim says, and it's a genuine, sober apology. “I'm sorry.” 

“You have exactly _thirty seconds_ to tell me what the fuck makes you think you can avoid me in your own damn apartment, Tim.” 

Tim opens his mouth, struggles to find the words he wants to use, and the thought that he'd be trying to script his answer after Jason's raw confession sends a sharp, spiteful shard of hurt into Jason's chest. 

“Twenty,” he says coldly, and Tim speaks. 

“The Albanians contacted me.” 

Jason blinks. Stares at him as that plants itself in his cerebellum, cold and delicate and handled with tentative, hesitant care. Lets it settle against his thoughts long enough to work out how that makes him feel, how Tim's response to it makes him feel. And Jason can only discern that no, and nope, and he's still fucking furious about it. 

“Fuck you.” 

“I mean it,” Tim responds, goes to take a step forward, frowns and holds himself back. “I'm not lying to you.” 

“No, I believe you,” Jason retorts, the words spitting from his throat. “I just can't believe you're deliberating over telling me.” 

“I wasn't- I was just trying to figure out how best to tell you. I was _going_ to tell you regardless. I just didn't want to spring it on you, like this.” 

He feels fractured. Nothing in him is sticking together properly. Every time he moves he encounters jagged edges and straining seams. He just feels hurt and betrayed and so fucking _angry_ , and he's scared and he doesn't want to think about those fucks for the rest of his goddamn days but they found him _again_ , somehow, and now he's helpless again. 

Jason swallows hard and spins on Tim, meeting his begging gaze across the expanse of the bedroom. “Here,” he manages to strain out, stabbing a finger at the carpet beside him. “Kneel.” 

There's definite relief on his features when Tim hastens into the room, stepping around the bedpost and sliding easily to his knees on the carpet in front of him. He stares up at Jason with the most contrite, desperate expression he's ever seen on a man, and Jason shakes off the hints of guilt that settle in him at the sight, sitting down on the bedcovers. 

He holds out a flat, upraised palm. “Hand,” he orders, and Tim immediately obeys. 

Jason's fingers jump to his knuckles, curling around his digits and squeezing once before he exhales and starts digging circles into the muscles. Lets the tension wash out of him at the steady, repetitive movements. 

When he's feeling much more level, Jason sighs and reopens his eyes, meeting Tim's receptive gaze. He's waiting, Jason realises, patient beneath Jason's harried ministrations. The realisation takes him down the last few pegs, and Jason feels his anger dissipate completely. 

“You are a piece of work, Timothy Drake,” he mutters, but its reserved. Tim just nods and says nothing. Waits for him to collect his thoughts and say, “When did they contact you?” 

“I woke up to their texts this morning,” Tim answers evenly, honestly. 

Jason starts slightly. “They texted you?” 

“To my personal number,” Tim hedges with a strong undercurrent of displeasure. 

“What do the texts say?” 

“They're not- they're images,” Tim says hesitantly, and Jason freezes for a moment. Tries to work out if they're photos of him from back then, tries to remember if he'd ever seen a camera while he was in that facility, and is terrified that he wouldn't remember anything from the later drops. Realises that they could have images of him in that state, without him even knowing, and now Tim could have them on his mobile. 

Tim's not too many steps behind him. 

“They're recent,” he amends, and Jason relaxes somewhat, though barely. 

“How recent?” 

Tim's lips peter into a thin, dissatisfied line. “Four days ago. From when we were at the festival. They got- we're both in the photos. So, they know.” 

Jason feels his throat tighten, focuses on rolling Tim's palm beneath his thumbs. “Well, fuck.” 

“Yeah.” 

It takes a few more minutes for that to really settle on Jason's chest, heavy and unwelcome. “Fuck.” 

“You said that,” Tim sighs softly. 

The anger's not gone. It's just reasserting itself, squeezing itself into a more compact, razorsharp, familiar shape. “Fuck them,” Jason says, with feeling. Tim glances up at him, worried. 

“Are you o-?” 

“ _Fuck_ them,” Jason repeats, louder this time. His chest feels tight, but it doesn't taste like panic on the back of his tongue. It tastes like lead, gunpowder; there's something metallic to it, a rage that's been compacted and shrunk and sequestered away, out of sight, waiting to be unleashed. Waiting to be struck, waiting to be ignited. “They think they can just- just-” 

“Okay, calm down,” Tim says nervously, and rises to his feet, slipping his hand from Jason's grip. Jason lets him go. Tim straightens out, sliding his hands up Jason's arms. “Let's think about this rationally. We can have the Bureau look into it. If they deem them a viable threat, we can move-” 

Jason's gaze snaps up to his, violent. “ _No_. No, I'm not moving anywhere. I'm not leaving. This is my goddamn home, and they don't get to just waltz in here and _threaten_ me again. This was supposed to be- I was supposed to be- Fuck them!” 

Tim looks like he doesn't know what to do with that. “What can I do? What do you want me to do for you?” 

The plan sears up through Jason like a lit rocket. “Give me your phone.” 

“Absolutely not,” Tim retorts immediately, and Jason glares. 

“Give it to me. I'm going to call them.” 

“No,” Tim insists sternly. “We both know it's going to be a burner cell. You're not going to get through to them. And even if you do, you don't want to talk to them.” 

“I _do-_ ” 

“No, you don't. You don't want them to win, Jason. If you talk to them you're going to be irrational and emotional and angry - which is fine, you have _every_ right to be - but they have nothing to lose and everything to gain. It's never going to work out in your favour.” 

Jason's hands are shaking. He slides them into his pockets to keep them contained. “If I see them-” 

“I know,” Tim says quietly, runs the back of his knuckles up the back of Jason's neck. It's a soothing gesture, and he slumps into it, exposing more skin. 

“I mean it. If I so much as glimpse them…” 

“You'll kill them,” Tim finishes with calm, impassive certainty. Jason glances up at him, the back of his skull knocking on Tim's knuckles as he stills. “I know. You deserve to. You _should_. God knows they've earnt it.” 

“But?” 

Tim sighs, the sound heavy and frustrated. “But I don't want to be visiting you in Wallens for the next fifteen to twenty years. They're not fucking worth that. They're not entitled to any more of your life. Remember that. You don't owe them any more of your time. You're done. You're out and they're pissed, and that's on them. And yeah, fuck them. Absolutely, fuck them. But I'm not letting them mess you up any more than they already are.” 

Jason hooks his fingers into the belt loops of Tim's jeans, letting the strain relieve him as he presses his forehead into Tim's stomach. The dual stutters on a breath but recovers quickly, trailing a hand slowly through Jason's hair. 

“I just want it to be done,” he whispers hoarsely, aware that he's verging on tears now that his anger is sapping. And fuck, he's hoping this isn't just a belated drop. He doesn't want that to trivialise this moment. 

“I know.” 

“I want it to be over.” 

“I know.” 

“Fuck them,” Jason whispers, but it's not vehement anymore. It's resigned. His fingers tighten in Tim's jeans. 

“You going to tear these off me, are you?” Tim asks, half-teasing. 

“Shut up,” Jason mumbles petulantly. “I'm allowed to mope.” 

“No, you're not,” Tim contradicts, slipping out of his grasp. “I won't let you. Come on, let's get out of here and go somewhere, get some decent coffee.” 

Jason frowns, but follows him upright. “It's forty degrees outside.” 

“It'll clear our heads,” Tim offers, dragging him to the foyer and hooking a scarf over his mussed hair. He pecks Jason on the cheek. “Let me indulge my shithead dom tendencies and do this for you.” 

Jason doesn't protest, lets Tim take him to Magnolia in Vienna, mostly because it's one of Tim's favourite dessert shops and also because Jason's not adverse to a sugar hit to combat the dizziness he's swimming in. Tim also texts Barbara to see if she's in the area, and Jason suspects he's after a lowkey second consult, which irks him, but not as much as it normally would. 

Magnolia is heaving when they arrive, so Tim ducks in to place their order while Barbara and Jason shuffle around on the sidewalk outside, keeping out of the slush. The cold is sort of helping to cement his mind, so Jason doesn't mind that his nose is numb. 

“So Tim gave me a brief fill-in,” Barbara opens with, and Jason grunts in acknowledgement, which she takes on board. “But I thought it would be best to get the story directly from you.” 

“ _He_ got the texts,” Jason says waspishly. 

“You spent the time,” Barbara cuts back, and Jason swallows thickly. “Sorry. That was harsh. But in my professional opinion, you need to address this.” 

“What if I don't want to?” 

Barbara shrugs offhandedly. “Then that's your choice. I can't give you closure, only advice. I'm happy to help you move through this, but you've got to be the driving force.” 

Jason sighs, because good psychologists don't come cheap, let alone free. “They sent him photos from the festival we went to last week.” 

“Does that bother you?” 

He shrugs, sidestepping that question. “Better than the alternative.” 

“What alternative are you worried about?” 

“Photos from back then, I guess.” He feels prickly, like he's encasing himself in a defensive, thorned shell. Barbara picks around his spines with the practiced ease of a medical professional. 

“Why wouldn't you want Tim to have photos of that? Because you don't want there to be photos, or because you don't want him to see them? Or something else?” 

“Both.” 

“Tell me about the latter.” 

“Tell you what?” 

“Why don't you want Tim to see photos of you?” 

Jason glares at his boots. “Because it was a shit time.” 

“Understandable, but that's an observation, not a reason.” 

And yeah, now Jason can see why Tim handled him with kid-gloves when it came to Barbara. She's a discerning bitch of a psychologist, and a damn good one at that. “Do I have to explain myself to you?” 

“Absolutely not, but you won't find the resolution you're after until you start to.” 

Jason fixes his gaze on a shopfront across the empty road, tracing the cursive lettering of the Wolf Trap Hotel sign with his eyes. It helps not having to look at anyone. “Because I'm different now.” 

“Different how?” 

Jason forces a bleak laugh. “I'm not drugged up out of my mind, for a start. I don't spend sixty percent of my time in a downscene against my will anymore.” 

“Give me a less disparaging example.” 

He chews at his bottom lip, letting his voice lower into contemplative quiet. “Because that's not who I am anymore. I'm an actual fucking person, with hobbies and goals and- and- I don't know! I'm rebuilding something here, and I don't think I should have to deal with this shit.” 

“That's a fair statement. But that doesn't tell me why you don't want Tim to see photos of you in that state.” 

“Because I fucking like him,” Jason snaps. “As a roommate, as a friend, as a- whatever. I don't need him pitying me. I don't want to ruin this. I'm kind of having a decent run for the first time in years, and I just feel a bit protective of it, okay? I don't want him to see me like that because that's not who I am anymore. I'm- I'm better now, I'm not- I'm not weak or pathetic or compromised.” 

The last word stutters out of him without enough breath behind it, barely more than a curtailed whisper. Barbara looks over him, before resuming her shuffling. “You think you failed your assignment?” 

That statement slices through his lungs worse than the chill, and Jason can't breathe again for a few guttural, frail moments. “Looks that way.” 

“The Bureau accepted your report. That has to mean they value it.” 

“I'm never going to work for the Bureau again,” Jason realises with a croak of dismay. Then he laughs sharply, because he doesn't know what else to do. “Blew that shot, didn't I?” 

“Did you want to work for the Bureau again?” 

“I don't know what I want to do. It's not really on the table now, though. I guess I'll have to go back to being a beat cop.” 

“Are you looking to get employment with the NYPD again?” 

Jason swallows, shaking blood back into his legs to distract himself. “Not really.” 

“Why?” 

“I like it here,” he mutters quietly, and Barbara might smile out of the corner of her mouth. He glances over at her. “I know this isn't a proper 'session', per se, but you're not going to tell Tim about any of this, are you? I probably should have opened with that.” 

Barbara scoffs. “I know what client-confidentiality laws are, Jason. And I take my work seriously. I'm not telling Tim anything that you tell me. As far as he's concerned, we never had this conversation.” 

He huffs a tight breath as the door chimes open and Tim emerges with a trayful of paper cups. “Thanks,” Jason says to Barbara as she turns to relieve Tim of her latte. 

“You're welcome,” she replies earnestly, as Tim slots himself between the pair of them with a hesitant grin. Jason cups his tea between his degloved hands and breathes in the aromatic steam. He shuffles absently while Tim and Barbara converse about a short-term immediate fix to their little issue, nursing their lattes. 

“Have you submitted a claim to the Bureau?” she asks around a steaming cloud. 

“Not yet, I'll file it soon. Not sure what remedy we're looking for just yet,” Tim answers, shuffling a step closer to Jason. 

“You could get a protection unit assigned.” 

Jason feels a rush of nausea rise in him at that suggestion, his mind flickering to armed handlers and set schedules. Tim must notice his expression, because he says, “No, I don't really like that option. And we can't get protection indefinitely. We don't know where these people are, or even if they're planning on making a move. It's off the table for now.” 

“Maybe you can move out West,” Barbara offers, finishing her drink and setting it aside. 

“I'd have to make up with Bruce first,” Tim points out with a non-committal laugh. 

Barbara rubs her gloved hands together and hunches her shoulders, cheeks flushed with warmth. “Who knows,” she says loftily as Tim kicks ice from the treads of his shoes. “Your birthday falls on Thanksgiving this year.” 

Tim looks like he's been doused in ice, his nose and toes tingling from the sudden rush of blood. He draws his brow into a petulant crease, tipping his head back into the ashen sky. 

“Fuck!” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translation notes:**
> 
> Nën (Albanian) = Sub. 
> 
> Drejtë (Albanian) = Upright. 
> 
> Eja (Albanian) = Come. 
> 
> Mbajeni atje, ashtu si një nënshtruar i mirë i vogël (Albanian) = Keep it there, like a good little submissive. 
> 
> Tani anën tjetër (Albanian) = Now the other side. 
> 
> Nuk flas mjaft shqip (Albanian) = I don't speak enough Albanian. 
> 
> Shkoni dhe uluni me ta tjerët (Albanian) = Go and sit with the others. 
> 
> Ju lutem, më poshtë. Nuk dua të jem këtu më (Albanian) = Please, get me down. I don't want to be here anymore. 
> 
> Ai është këtu. Ai erdhi sa më shpejt që dëgjoi. Ai ishte afër (Albanian) = He's on his way. He came as soon as he heard. He was nearby. 
> 
> Nënët (Albanian) = Subs. 
> 
> Dashur (Albanian) = Beloved. 
> 
> Kuptoni? (Albanian) = Understand? 
> 
> Të mirë (Albanian) = Good. 
> 
> Da, gospodine. Hoću sve što ti se sviđa (Serbian) = Yes, sir. I want whatever pleases you. 
> 
> Gjuhë in amëtare (Albanian) = My mother tongue. 
> 
> Unë vetëm dua t'ju bëj të lumtur, zotëri (Albanian) = I just want to make you happy, sir. 
> 
> Eja, më ndiq (Albanian) = Come, follow me.


	6. Commemorate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter tags:**
> 
> i. Mentioned past death, mentioned past abuse  
> ii. No tags apply.  
> iii. Minor injury, mentioned past death  
> iv. Minor injury, alcohol mention  
> v. Explicit sexual content (consensual), consensual scening, safewords, kissing, fellatio, finger sucking, anal fingering, anal sex, M/M 
> 
> Please message me if I have missed any tags, so they can be added.

Tim had made a deal with his father years back, when he'd been nudging adolescence and had much too much self-directed rage to justify. He still didn't honestly know why he had conceded, though he suspected Alfred's tempering involvement, and he wasn't dumb enough to look a gift horse in the mouth. They'd compromised, and to both of their credits, they'd held up each of their ends through nearly seventeen beautiful, beautiful years. Their compromise had culminated in this: 

He was only obligated to spend his birthday with his family if it happened to coincide with Thanksgiving Day. 

Oh, Tim had done the math. Knew that that narrowed it down to an approximately five-year cycle of mandatory birthday celebrations. He'd gotten a good run in the decade between 2002 and 2013, but now it seemed karma was calling in her debts, fucking loan shark that she was. 

Tim had clawed back some semblance of victory though. He'd flat out refused to have Thanksgiving-birthday at his father's Natural Bridge farmstead, and chased up Barbara's half-teasing suggestion that they host it at her three-bedroom in Vienna with a verbal middle finger. Which means that he’s the only feasible option left to host. 

It's a three hour drive west out of Arlington, and Tim reckons they'll be able to burn half an hour in Harrisonburg at Heritage Bakery. He mostly likes to stop through there at least once on any round trip because he's yet to find another cafe that does carrot-apple-and-cider cake with caramelised pecans _half_ as good as theirs _sounds_. 

He figures the week's not totally forfeit either, because at least he and Jason might get some quality bonding time in on the trek. Jason has been pretty stable since Steph hit American soil, but recent Balkan scares have made him withdrawn and defensive. Tim's been off-kilter for a while now, trying to tentatively coax him back into the good thing they had going, but Jason hasn't bitten yet, and as much as it pains him, Tim isn't going to press the issue. And forcible family anniversaries are a guaranteed way to prompt a spike in his blood pressure. So maybe a relaxing meander through the countryside is exactly what the doctor ordered. 

He's packed two nights before they're due to leave, and is deciding which files he should really squeeze into his small suitcase and which he can afford to procrastinate on for another week in his study. Tim's narrowed it down to two files and is deciding whether the Rusiecki case can be sequestered back into his makeshift archives room when he spots the manila envelope on the abandoned desk. 

He'd moved all his open work files into his own room, spread them out on the carpet like a geometric Pollock canvas, but Tim had left the desk tucked away in the room in case he needed a hardtop to work off. Given that his archives are currently occupying the walk-in-robe that attaches Jason's bedroom, he figures he must be using the desk occasionally. 

Tim's aware that despite being born on the tail end of November, he's always dipped more into his Scorpio attributes than his Sagittarius. So he only feels mildly guilty when his underlying curiosity gets the better of him and he approaches the desk. His self-reproach is replaced entirely with dubiety when he leafs through the envelope. 

Tim corners Jason in his room, aware of the way that Jason instinctually settles himself into a soft stance, angling his shoulders to face Tim head-on. He throws the manilla envelope onto the bed, and Jason's eyes follow its arc. 

“This is an application for Penn Law,” he says, and realises his tone is a lot more accusatory than he intended. 

Jason goes back to rifling through his duffel, focused on jamming his toiletries into a niche between his socks and his novels. “It is.” 

“Why is there an application for the Penn Law Juris Doctor program on my desk?” Tim asks, floored. 

Jason won't meet his gaze, but he does reply calmly, “Applications closed on the 15th. It’s a duplicate.” 

Tim honestly doesn't know how he manages to keep such a straight face. But he's never one to back down from a challenge, even if it is the world's pettiest game of who snaps first. “You know they have online submissions now,” he says coolly. 

“I like to give it a personal touch,” Jason responds. 

Tim's lips settle in a hard, displeased line. “Are you applying to any others?” he asks tonelessly, because he likes to think he knows Jason by now. 

“Princeton and Columbia,” Jason rattles off, his blue gaze fixing on the short route from his comforter to his duffel and staying there. “Maybe Harvard and Yale before spring.” He shrugs absently, like he hasn't already made his mind up. Like Tim doesn't suspect he's already neck deep in the admissions process. 

“No Cornell?” Tim prompts. 

“They closed November 1st.” 

“And you didn't apply?” 

Jason shrugs again. “Didn't feel like they were right for me.” 

“Didn't think you could make the cut?” Tim teases lightly, smirking. There's no malcontent there though. 

“Made it last time,” Jason replies, and Tim pauses, the gears shifting. 

“You- you made it into Cornell Law School?” 

Jason pins him with an odd, only partially deprecating look. Tim can't read the rest of what's there though, before he looks away. “I was a year and a half into my juris doctor when they yanked me out.” 

Tim knows he's not referring to the university, understands now why Cornell is a touchy subject. Understands why Jason might not want to go back to the land of promise after taking the world's shittiest slip-n-slide to rock bottom at ninety miles per hour in the sixteen months that had followed. And Tim could empathise with that, because he'd been there. 

“I did some of my residency at Princeton Health with Penn Med before I started consulting for the Bureau.” 

Jason glances up at him, surprised, because Tim's never mentioned that he studied medicine. And for good reason. 

But Tim knows streets go both ways, so he scrubs a hand absently into his hairline and shoves down the churning feeling in his stomach. “I did some time in Baltimore with GMBC, and a couple of weeks at Princeton Health before I transferred to HUP.” 

“How far did you get?” 

“Two years in,” Tim answers past the tightness in his chest, and exhales shakily. He's aware he's dancing around the obvious question, but he can't bring himself to address it. “Then I changed career paths, set up my own firm, and I've been consulting for nearly four years now.” 

“Why'd you quit?” 

It hurts, it really does. Tim flinches, but sucks in a shallow breath and rushes out. “Someone died on my watch, and I couldn't take it. So I quit.” 

Jason doesn't ask who died, and deep in the raw parts of Tim's soul, he's grateful. He doesn't point out that lots of people die in hospitals, usually around doctors, and that someone dying during his residency shouldn't have been enough for Tim to pull a complete one-eighty on six years of study and career dedication. 

“I'm almost finished packing,” he says, and zips his duffel closed. He meets Tim's gaze. “Are we leaving tomorrow morning?” 

The official birthday celebrations aren't due to commence for another three days, but Tim has always kind of ascribed to the kooky view that Tuesdays are an action-energy day. 

He shrugs. “I was born on the cusp of Mars entering Sagittarius, so I tend to like Tuesdays for getting shit done. And Mars is in Scorpio right about now, so I'm all about indulging my decisive tendencies.” 

Jason blinks at him, before his brow pulls into a look of derision. “You know far too much about astrology bullshit to convince me that you're not a zodiac kook.” 

Tim grins, and plucks the envelope off the bed. “Cass got really into astrology in her teens. It's all just facts and figures, and a splash of geometric astronomy, at the end of the day.” He pauses, and then fixes Jason with a stern glare. “Don't tell her I told you that; she'll take me out.”  

“Oh, I'm adding it to the list,” Jason responds with a mischievous grin, and dodges Tim's glower, slipping past him out of the room. “Right underneath Barbara's best baby Tim stories.” 

“You're not instilling a lot of confidence,” Tim shouts back. “Why am I bringing you again?” 

“Great music taste for the three-hour ride!” 

 

* * *

 

Jason's not wrong about the great Australian Rock setlist. Tim has a vague recollection of some of the bigger names as hits from the 80s, but some of them just slip him by. He mostly just enjoys watching Jason energetically croon to some bass-heavy ballad about beds on fire. 

They do stop in at Harrisonburg, mostly so Tim can entice Jason into trying the cider cake. He wraps himself up in the corner and nurses a cup of majcina dusica tea with an overspoken fondness while Tim chats to the owner in French. They grab a box of assorted macarons and a pair of pumpkin spice sticky buns for the ride, and Jason practically has to drag Tim away with the threat that he'll walk the last hour to Lexington. 

His home town is small and somewhat quaint, with an outspoken architectural traditionalism that Tim inherently associates with hot cocoa and Christmas. Jason surveys Main Street out his window with vague curiosity, and Tim makes sure to amble through to give him a chance to drink in the scenery. 

He pulls the car into the drive amidst a light snowfall, and it's not until he goes to step out and catches Jason staring at the double-story brick house that Tim remembers most people his age don't own houses like this. It's not extravagant, by any means, but it's a decently-sized three-bedder and he's not even in his thirties yet. Tim lets the car idle and tries to think of something to break the stunned silence. 

He can watch Jason doing the calculations in the back of his head, adding on student debt and taking out mortgage interest at blinding speed. “How old are you again?” he asks softly. 

“Twenty-eight in two days,” Tim replies, and Jason frowns. He adds as nonchalantly as possible, “Consulting and investment properties. And a loan from Bruce.” 

“I'm older than you,” Jason says with stiff awe, his lips petering into a dissatisfied line. 

Tim scoffs. “By what, two years five months?” 

“Two weeks short of four, actually,” Jason answers, and glances aside at Tim. “Yeah, sorry, my birthday's in August. I lied about the June thing. _Don't_ astrology that,” he adds sharply, because Tim must be broadcasting his offense and excitement too loudly. 

“Stubborn fire sign,” Tim mutters under his breath, and hides it amidst the bustle as he steps out to raise the garage door to drive them in. Jason drags their duffels out of the trunk while Tim ferrets around for the right key, and pushes the white door open with an ostentatious, “Tada!” 

Jason stands in the foyer and _stares_. Stares for long enough that Tim's considering whether he's had a seizure and he should be dialing 911. 

“Thought it'd be smaller, but I was wrong,” Jason finally says, and lowers the bags. 

Tim shifts uncomfortably. “You've never been in a house this…?” _Big_ seems too pretentious, and Tim can't find a word that doesn't run in the same horrid strain. 

Jason scoffs, startling him in the thick silence. “My parents own a five bedroom Colonial in Oyster Bay,” Jason retorts with distinct derision. “This is small compared to the house I grew up in. I'm mostly just dealing with the fact that you own this place, at our age.” 

“Yeah, well,” Tim murmurs noncommittally, and toes off his shoes at the front door. Turns the nub deftly and walks past the snow-layered patio towards the main house. “It's your house too now, I guess, sort of.” 

He consults the thermostat on the wall by the stairs and flicks on the central heating. Then he moseys on over to the bright blue kitchen and puts on a pot of coffee. 

“The house shouldn't take too long to warm up,” Tim calls over the dining room to Jason as he follows, casting around. “Do you want coffee or cocoa?” 

“Cocoa,” Jason replies, and disappears out of sight into the living room. Tim can hear him pattering about, and then he comes into view again through the study nook. He's inspecting the handful of books on Tim's corner bookshelf, gaze running along the spines with vague curiosity. Then he turns and spots Tim again, and shoulders past the long wall desk in the narrow nook, arriving back in the kitchen. “Is upstairs this circular?” 

“Go find out yourself,” Tim offers lightly, leaning back on his palms against the counter, and Jason catches himself for a moment, as if realising that he doesn't actually have to ask for permission. “You're free to check out the whole place.” 

Jason nods at that, sliding past him and admiring some of the few paintings Tim has around the joint. “How do I find my room?” 

“Oh,” Tim starts, and straightens a bit. “Well, all my siblings are staying over, so I've kind of booked the rooms out, so to speak. I had figured we'd stay in the master bedroom, but you can take the spare room until everyone gets here if you're not comfortable with that. And then I'll sort out a sofa for you for the rest of the week. Or I can put you up in a hotel. My parents are staying at the General Lee, and they're old friends with the owners, so I'm sure we can-” 

“Tim,” Jason says, and he trails off. He's got an odd expression on his face, one that Tim can't quite put his finger on. “It's fine. Master bedroom is fine. Do you take top bunk or bottom bunk?” 

It takes Tim a moment to latch on, and then he's blurting, “Asshole,” around a grin. 

Jason smiles. “But seriously, left or right?” 

“Surprise me,” Tim answers, and reaches for the pot of coffee. 

 

* * *

 

Tim wakes on the second night because, well, because he's cold. And wet. 

He can't immediately place why he's woken up. His siblings arrived earlier today, and now occupy the other two rooms on the top floor and the study downstairs. He suspects maybe a commotion had woken him, but the house is dead silent but for his own inhalations and the man sleeping next to him. 

Then he wraps a hand around his nightshirt and releases it's partially soaked through. He fumbles blindly for the bedside lamp with a frown, wincing as light stabs into his recovering retinas. 

He's cold not only because he's drenched, but also because all of the bedsheets are currently wrapped around Jason, and soaked through. Jason's covered in a sheen of sweat, his hair plastered to his creased brow as he frowns up a storm, curled towards the other side of the bed. He's stiff as a board, all hunched over and compacted, and Tim can tell immediately he's experiencing night terrors. 

“Fuck,” he spits, and rolls up onto his knees. 

Jason's both shivering and shaking, and his teeth would be chattering if his jaw wasn't clenched so hard. He looks absolutely terrified, riding out whatever it is that's dancing around his brain over the border of dreams and memories. 

Tim pries some of the looser sheets away from him, just because he's concerned Jason's going to strangle himself with the cotton. Then he lays a hand over Jason's sweat-slicked shoulder and murmurs, “Jason?” 

Jason doesn't even acknowledge his presence. He's tense beneath Tim's hands, stiff enough to have Tim concerned that he's going to snap a tendon. He squeezes his shoulder, curling over him as he evens out his tone and tries to radiate calm. 

“Jason, you're having a nightmare,” he says clearly, leans over him to see if he's getting through at all. “It's okay, you're safe. You're fine, Jason.” 

Then he reaches up to brush some of his saturated hair from his forehead, and Jason moves faster than he can comprehend. One second he twitches, as if he's going to unfurl, and Tim's heart spikes in a sharp little burst of hope, and then the entire left side of his face feels like someone's swung at him with a crowbar. 

Tim jolts back out of reflex, out of range as Jason withdraws his elbow, and it's not until he sprawls back on the sheets and acknowledges that he _definitely_ still has a face, because its _burning_ , that he realises Jason's hit him. Clipped him right across the eye socket, point blank and with unfortunately good aim. 

Tim pushes back up, cupping his cheek with one hand as he presses a hand into Jason's arm and doesn't come any closer. “Jason?” he repeats, concerned. 

Jason mewls sharply. His eyes pop open, blank and terrified for the briefest moment before he seems to snap back into awareness and realises he's not dreaming anymore. He sucks in a halting, hyperventilated breath, and chokes it back out when the cold hits his throat, unfurling completely.  

“You're with me,” Tim says as evenly as he can manage, and tries to keep the groan of discomfort from his tone as Jason grapples with his surroundings. “It's Tim, it's me. You're safe.” 

He bolts upright, casting around the room as he comes down from a frenzied ricochet of breaths. “I'm in- This is Virginia?” he presses, as if to confirm. 

“Lexington, Virginia,” Tim confirms drily, pushing his fingertips experimentally into the tender skin around his eye and winces. “Birthplace of Confederate history.” 

Jason nods at that, takes a few heaving breaths as he gradually winds down. Once his shoulders aren't pinned to his ears, he glances over at Tim, and freezes. 

“Oh God,” he whispers, and then he's sliding out of bed and beelining for the bathroom. 

“Wait, Jason-” Tim starts, and the man reappears in the doorway with a wet washcloth. He slips back onto the dry half of the bed, tentatively offering it to him. Tim murmurs his thanks and lays the blessedly cool cloth against his skin. 

Jason looks so damn ashamed that Tim can feel it like a physical ache in his gut, and he reaches out and seizes Jason's fingertips with as good approximation of depth perception as he can muster. Jason jumps a little at the contact, but meets his pinched frown. 

“Hey, don't do that. It's fine, I'm fine,” Tim assures him with a half-smile. It pulls at all his muscles wrong, igniting the aching half of his face, and Tim lets it drop. He narrowly misses wincing, but he's sure Jason won't take that well. 

“I'm lucky I didn't take your eye out,” Jason mutters, staring at him, and the guilt of that stare makes Tim ill. 

“What about you? Are you okay?” Tim deflects, and squeezes his fingers bruisingly hard. 

“I'm fine, I'm-,” Jason begins to say, and then actually looks down at himself. “Wet.” 

“You must be cold,” Tim soothes, and drags the pair of them to their feet. Jason goes without any resistance, and Tim swallows that down silently and focuses on getting him into the bathroom. 

He lets go of Jason's fingers to lean into the shower and flick on the faucet. When he reemerges, Jason's shucked his shirt and is stepping out of his boxers. 

“Oh, you're just- okay,” Tim stutters, feeling the blush rise warmly to his cheek. The other has faded to a hot, numb throb. 

Jason arches an eyebrow at him and hesitates on the elastic waistband of his briefs. “I have seen you naked, Tim,” he points out, and Tim feels a spike of embarrassment spiral up through his chest. “I've been _inside_ you naked.” 

“I just didn't think- Okay, its okay, let me just,” he babbles, and shuffles around him to paw through the cupboards for some body wash. “You want coconut or mint?” 

“Does it matter?” 

Tim turns at his flat, resigned tone, frowning. “Hey, I said cut that out.” 

“Mint,” Jason replies instead of addressing that, and doesn't look at him. 

Tim purses his lips and hands the bottle over. “We can't both be beat up over this,” he says with a twitch of a grin, and Jason sighs heavily. 

“That was a shit joke.” 

“Wait, Jason,” Tim says, latching onto his wrist. “I don't- This wasn't your fault. I don't blame you.” 

“You don't need to,” Jason replies bleakly. He sounds tired, and not from the impromptu awakening. “Doing that enough for the both of us.” 

Then he shrugs out of Tim's grip and lets the shower door close behind him. Tim stares at him for a while, which he pointedly ignores, before he resigns himself to the fact that Jason's going to drag himself over the coals for this whether Tim likes it or not. So he goes to dig him out some fresh pajamas. 

Jason ruffling the towel through his hair when he gets back, and he hangs it haphazardly on the rack, taking the outstretched handful of clothes with a low, soft, “Thanks.” 

Tim perches on the closed toilet lid and watches him, just silently revels in the way that Jason moves while he dresses. The washcloth is now lukewarm, and Tim hoists the tepid square into the sink with a sigh. Jason watches it disappear over the porcelain edge, and flinches when Tim prods at the area with tentative fingers. 

He spends the next few minutes pointedly staring at his bare feet before he mutters, “That's going to bruise.” 

“It's not the worst birthday present I've gotten,” Tim quips, and watches Jason's face fall. He scrambles to salvage the moment. “Damian got me a necktie for my birthday once.” 

Jason arches a brow, not making the connection. 

“I was eleven,” Tim supplies, and the expression clears into mild amusement. “Birthday gifts were never really his strongest suit. Thank God I haven't had to deal with many from him in the past two decades, or I think I'd go insane.” 

“What's the deal with your birthdays, anyway?” Jason asks curiously, squinting. “Dick said you made a deal with your dad when you were eleven or something?” 

Tim sighs, leans his head sideways against the cooling shower glass. “Yeah, it was a fucking good deal too.” 

“Why though?” 

“Because someone had to get his mind off all the shit that was going down then,” Tim provides, eyes half-lidded. The glass is really soothing against his sore face. “My dad's close friend had just died, and it was his second friend to go suddenly, so he wasn't taking it especially well. He was like, forty, too. And he was pretty close to him in age, so I guess it was pretty confronting for him.” 

Jason slides down the wall beneath the towel rack, the motion easy and effortless. The tile must be blisteringly cold, but he sits anyway, his attention fixed on Tim. 

“Anyway, he was broken up about it. Like, sad _all the time_. And I guess little me just couldn't handle it. And I figured him being angry was better than him being sad, because at least he was doing something then, right? So I made him angry. I started acting out, and got progressively more outspoken. Started getting glances from all the wrong people, until he snapped awake and stepped in to put an end to it, because Bruce Wayne isn't a man you fuck with.” 

Tim smirks, a morsel of mirth lighting him up amidst his bruising pride. 

“But then it worked, so obviously I kept pushing, kept ramping it up. We got into a huge fight over it, and amidst other things, I said that I hated birthday parties. Because I was eleven and a brat and whatever. And at first he blew me off, and we didn't talk for like, a few days. Which feels like weeks as a kid, you know? I thought I was going to be sent away from home or something. But then Alfred stepped in, and talked to him. So Bruce comes in and sits on my bed one night and really talks to me. And I leapt on the first excuse I could think of, which was that I was jealous that Thanksgiving was always so close to my birthday, and I thought it was shitty that I had to share my birthday like that.” 

Jason snorts softly, and even Tim grins. 

“Yeah, it was a bad lie. But whatever, he wasn't about to shoot me down. So we agreed that if my birthday fell on Thanksgiving, we'd throw a huge party and forget Thanksgiving even existed. But I had to celebrate it with everyone. And I didn't have to celebrate any of my other birthdays if I didn't want to. ” 

“And you kept doing it, even once you were older?” 

Tim shrugs easily. “I didn't have another birthday fall on Thanksgiving until I was twenty-two. And everyone had basically been hoarding up eleven years’ worth of presents, and it was the first celebration I'd allowed since I'd gotten my medical degree, and fuck. They were all just so excited to celebrate it, and I kind of was too. So I kept up the tradition. Guess they make the most of a limited thing, you know? So it sort of works out for the best.” 

Jason shakes his head, exasperated. “You're a weird kind of masochist.” 

It's disparaging, but at least it dries up some of the guilt he's been harbouring, so Tim allows it. He smiles serenely. “Don't you know it, patron.” 

Jason rolls his eyes, but pushes upright, offering Tim a hand. “Let's get you back to bed. Maybe if I can get a few hours in I'll be able to convince myself that that eye doesn't look as bad in the daylight.” 

Tim winks at him with his good eye, and lets him lead them into the bedroom. “Maybe.” 

After they strip the bed and lay out new sheets, they do get another three or so hours sleep in before the throbbing wakes Tim from a fitful dream, and then there's no arguing that sleep's definitely off the table. Tim sort of half-hoped that the swelling wouldn't rear up for a little bit longer, and that maybe Jason would be a lot more rational come morning. 

Jason won't even look at him as he trudges down the stairs to hunt for some ibuprofen, and Tim's chest aches more than his eye does. 

 

* * *

 

Cass is the first to find him, bundled up on the patio outside. He hears the door latch behind her but doesn't glance up from the half-circle of red brick he's managed to unearth with his boot in the past hour. 

She doesn't take the chair next to him, just stands with her steaming coffee trapped between her gloves. “You're really turning on the morning person charm today,” she mutters drily, and Tim shoots her a glare. 

“Where's mine?” he asks back, and she snickers. 

“Go make one yourself.” 

Tim gives a noncommittal grunt and burrows down deeper into his coat. He knows she's rolling her eyes, just from the way the hairs on the back of his neck itch. “What?” he demands sharply. 

“You going to show me?” 

Tim considers playing dumb. Toys with the notion and ultimately discards it, because they're all going to see it eventually. Tugs down the scarf he has wrapped around his nose and mouth and turns to give Cass a proper view. 

She whistles low, a broad grin spreading across her features as she bends to get a better look. “That's a damn good shiner. Did he clock you full or just hook you?” 

Tim glares, and Cass straightens with a chuckle. He tugs the scarf back up over his tingling nose and stares back out over the neighbourhood gardens awash with melting snow. 

“Want me to beat him up?” she asks, and horror strikes through Tim. 

“No!” 

She shrugs easily. “Big sister code - I've gotta ask.” Cass finally takes the companion chair, hitches her knees up to her chest to preserve warmth as she inhales the steam. “How's he taking it?” 

“Shittily,” Tim snaps. 

“How're _you_ taking it?” 

“Shittier.” 

Cass sighs. “You two really are compatible. You're even throwing tantrums over the same shit now.” 

“He feels guilty,” Tim mumbles. “I told him it doesn't matter. He thinks I'm just being a shithead dom trying to brush it off to make him happier.” 

“Maybe you're looking at this backwards,” Cass offers, and Tim glances over at her. She stoically avoids his gaze, but continues nonetheless. “Maybe he's accusing _you_ of being hyperdynamic because _he's_ being hyperdynamic.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Well, he's a sub, so like it or not, he's got an undying need to please. Same as you, same as Dick. Maybe Jason feels like he's failed in that department. Maybe he doesn't know why he's even feeling that way. Maybe you coming in and offering to make it all disappear like a good, considerate dom is taking the option away from him to fix all this. Maybe he's scared you'll never give him the opportunity to make this up to you, for your eye and all the other stuff you've heaped on his tab.” 

Tim frowns. “It's not a tab-” 

“Not to you, or to me, but it is to him. It's a debt, financial or emotional or otherwise. He feels responsible for it.” 

“So what, you're suggesting I let him work down his tab?” Tim asks skeptically, and Cass shrugs again. 

“It's what I would do, as a dom,” Cass admits. “Yeah, we might be hardwired to provide, but maybe this is your best middle ground. You _provide_ him the opportunity to make it up to you, and he can finally chip off some of his debt. He gets the opportunity to please you, and you start taking his mistakes seriously. Compromise, win-win.” 

Tim mulls this over silently, and Cass polishes off her coffee. “It's a long tab,” Tim says finally, hesitantly. “That's sort of on me.” 

“Start small,” Cass advises, turns her collar up against her flushed ears. “Besides, you're young and in love. You've got decades.” 

Tim's face scrunches with his recoil. “We're not in love!” 

Cass grins. “You've got a crush,” she sing-songs. 

“I've got a witness,” Tim snaps heatedly. 

“Sittin' in a tree,” she purrs to herself, as if in confirmation, and Tim feels his cheeks warm beneath his scarf. He fixes his narrow-eyed glare on the fence that separates the snowed yard from the neighbour's dead hydrangeas, determined not to rise to her goading. 

They sit in resolute silence for the next ten minutes, until they're startled by a sharp rap on the glass door behind them. Barbara beckons them inside, and Tim helps pull Cass to her feet, both their muscles stiff with the cold. 

“What were you both doing out there?” Barbara accuses, and does her best not to linger on Tim's black eye for too long. She crosses her arms over her chest, as if to trap the question within, and glares as he shucks his coat. “It's freezing.” 

“Did you call us in just to tell us that?” Tim asks, exchanges a look of silent camaraderie with Cass as she hooks her jacket up. He turns back to face Barbara with an amused, tight smile. “Could've honed up on our morse code.” 

Barbara rolls her eyes, starting backwards towards the living room. “Come on, we need you in here.” 

“What on earth fo-” 

Tim freezes in the doorway, stunned. 

The living room has been transformed into an orange-and-gold forest. Wreaths of autumn leaves are strung across the mantle, the door trims and the shelving. There is at least five arrangements of pumpkins strewn about the room, and a bursting cornucopia on the far table. The coffee table is now a dark wooden pontoon amongst a burning bush, and an assortment of wrapped gifts adorn it. 

“Happy Birthday!” 

Tim's still blinking dumbfoundedly when Cass claps him on the back and slides into the room to steal the last remaining armchair. Which leaves Tim no choice but to take centre stage on the footrest pulled up to the coffee table. He's still suring up his theory that she's the master of set ups when he takes his designated seat. 

“This is,” Tim starts, and has to drink the decorations in once over. “This is impressive.” 

Barbara looks like she's practically glowing with pride, and she sandwiches herself between Steph and the armrest, beaming. “Open, open,” she chides, gesturing to the array of presents. 

Tim lets his gaze swing over them, and can't help the smile that's tugging its way onto his lips. It's been a long while since he's done this, and he can kind of say he's missed it. “Any preferences?” 

“Biggest first,” Steph declares, and Wally voices his agreement. 

“Who's is who's?” Tim asks instead, and grabs the nearest neatly wrapped box. 

“Ours,” Alfred says from his perch up on the table on the far side of the room, and Tim tears into it. It's a TAG Heuer, with a black face and a crisp dial, and Tim inspects it for a moment before seeking out Bruce's gaze. 

“Thank you, I love it.” 

“Put it on!” Bruce demands with a grin, and Tim acquiesces, reaching for an envelope as he does so. 

“That one's mine,” Cass drawls as he slides out two MLB tickets. “The Orioles lost this season, but we've got the next season in the bag.” 

“Sweet! You still got your jersey?” 

“You bet,” she replies with a grin, and Tim tucks the tickets back into the envelope with a smile. 

“Thanks.” 

“No problem. Always need someone who can appreciate a good game.” 

“Amen,” Tim concurs, and snags a bottle bag. The bottle of whisky inside isn't wrapped, and Tim runs a thumb over the imprinted black wyrm there as he inspects the red label. 

“It's an Armorik single malt,” Barbara calls over, nestling her chin into her upturned palms as she watches him read the tasting notes on the reverse label. “Sherry cask. From Dinah too, obviously.” 

“Thanks, Babs.” 

He lays hands on a neatly folded box that is surprisingly cold to the touch, and arches a brow. 

“It's been in the fridge,” Jon offers sheepishly as Tim unfolds the package. 

There's a cinnamon and pumpkin spice cake sitting within, folds of pale brown icing layered over the top, and sprinkles of red, orange and yellow candy leaves scattered throughout. The flowery label on the back panel of the box reads _Heritage Bakery_ , and Tim's heart soars. 

“We have candles too,” Barbara adds. “But we'll do the cake after. Steph, Dick and Wally's gift is next.” 

“Biggest last,” Wally quips, and Tim chuckles as he drags the bulky package into his lap. It doesn't take him long to tear off the gaudy wrapping. 

“Heard Nikons were your favourite,” Wally says, leaning onto his knees. “That is the Nikon D800 with a 35mm lens.” 

Tim runs a hand down the sleek plastic, lets his fingers climb to the lens and peeks into the eyepiece. 

“It’s a bit of a drive,” Dick admits as Tim wraps a hand around the grip and lifts the lens to look down the viewfinder, adjusting the focus ring, “but we can go up to Madison if you'd like. Should still be plenty of songbirds.” 

“It's gorgeous,” he breathes, shuffles his grip and lets the weight sag into his left hand. “Really, this is beautiful.” 

“There's a 50mm and 24mm in the case,” Wally expounds. “My first SLR was a D800, so I figure this’ll suit what you have in mind.” 

Tim lets the lens drop, grins over at the three of them slumped over the lounge. “Thank you, so much.” 

“Anytime,” Dick murmurs, and Tim sets the camera down on the carpet. He can't quench the broad smile that's splitting his face. 

“Cake?” he asks the room at large, and Barbara springs to her feet amidst a chorus of assent. 

There's a few minutes of excited bustle as they clear the gifts away and Barbara lights the cake with admirable efficiency, then a rush to surround it. The choir is loud and boisterous around him, pressing in with broad enthusiasm and crooning celebration as Tim laughs and grins at the flickering flames. 

Tim finds Jason's gaze across the room, his smile widening to match. His face feels unbearably warm, and it's probably not just the candles. 

 

* * *

 

He finds Jason a few hours later in the back shed. Tim'd retrofitted it into a makeshift mini-gym, with a rack of weights, a mat for sparring, and a punching bag. Jason's clustered around the latter, and Tim pauses inside the doorway to watch the way he rolls through the motions, smooth and effortless. 

He's alerted by the wash of cold air that breaches through the door behind Tim. Jason stands down while Tim tugs it closed, watches him take a mouthful of water from a conveniently placed bottle and set it aside. 

“Hey, Mohammed Ali,” Tim calls as he advances on him, and takes a swing. He broadcasts it, so Jason sees it coming a mile off. Slides through and around his momentum and wraps his wrist up over Tim's chest, locks it against the back of his neck in a half-nelson. 

“Definitely a masochist,” Jason mutters, and relinquishes the hold. Tim rolls upright, grinning as Jason turns and starts unwinding his wraps. Tim clears himself a perch on the weights bench, and takes a seat. 

“So I've been thinking,” Tim starts cheerfully, and Jason eyes him warily as he peels off the wraps. “Maybe we should renegotiate your no-expenses living situation.” 

Jason starts, and then smirks to himself. Tim can't place where its coming from. “Thought you might ask me about that.” 

“You did, did you?” Tim rejoins. “And what did you think?” 

“I thought you might suggest I start paying off my tab. Maybe with some negotiated leeway here and there.” 

Tim nods, sobering a little bit. “Yeah. I had a chat with Cass,” he says by way of explanation. 

“Yeah, well,” Jason murmurs, somewhat sheepishly. “She came to me first.” 

Tim stiffens, before his features descend into a scowl. “My entire family is made up of traitors!” 

“She figured I'd be easier to convince than you.” 

“Were you?” 

“Well, she did it while she had me in a hammerlock, so it wasn't like I could say no,” Jason answers with a wry smile. He waves off Tim's concerned frown. “We were wrestling. It's good practice.” 

“I'm going to deck her when I see her next.” 

“No, you're not,” Jason contradicts, unconcerned as he comes to take up the other half of the bench, swinging his leg over it. “It was a good suggestion, and you know it. Not that you could get within ten feet of her if she didn't explicitly want you to anyway.” 

“I have beat her sparring before, you know,” Tim offers sullenly. 

“Was she drunk?” Jason prods, and Tim glares. He smiles, chuckling to himself. “I'm just saying, woman knows how to fight. She's a goddamn cop through and through. I could tell you that easy.” 

“I keep forgetting you were a cop,” Tim murmurs, and Jason nods, taking another gulp of water. 

“So how do you suggest I start clearing my debt?” 

“I don't want your money,” Tim says immediately, and Jason raises a brow but nods like he expected that. “Even if you get a decent job. I don't need it, so I don't want it.” 

“Lay out my options for me, doc.” 

“Well, you like cooking. And you're pretty tidy already. So some domestic labour doesn't seem too strenuous to me. I mean, I'm not going to neglect my half entirely, but I'm about to be buried in a new year's worth of case files, so my time's about to become pretty scarce.” 

Jason nods thoughtfully. “That sounds like a good way to ease into it. What else?” 

“I know you're looking for work,” Tim hedges. “Something to keep you busy in the daylight hours.” 

“‘Cause I'm so busy in the nighttime hours,” Jason says with a smirk, and Tim shoves him lightly. 

“Shut up. I'm trying to make some heartfelt suggestions here.” 

Jason gestures broadly. “Please continue then.” 

He sucks in a long breath. “I'm thinking that maybe I need an assistant,” Tim rushes out. 

Jason blinks at him. “For your consultancy firm?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Probably do,” Jason responds impassively, and Tim frowns. 

“So you agree then?” 

“Sure. I mean, I've seen your filing system, so I know where your focus isn't. An assistant would be a good way for you to keep your shit in order. So yeah, I think you should get one.” 

Tim blinks at him, before the pin drops and he scowls. “Oh my God, you dumb idiot.” 

“Dumb idiot?” Jason repeats with dubious amusement. 

“ _You_ , you stupid fool,” Tim emphasises, and Jason balks. 

“You want _me_ to be your assistant?” 

“Yeah, well, I thought maybe I should expand my firm. So you'd shadow me, and then you'd take on some files under supervision, and later maybe you'd choose to become a consultant.” 

“That's…” 

“Look, I know it's not what you had your heart set on,” Tim rushes out. “But I just wanted to give you some options other than going back to being a cop, or getting some service gig to fill your time. And I could subsidise your juris doctor, if that's something you'd want, as your employer. And it means you can ease back into working for the Bureau without having to dive right in. I know you had your heart set on field work, and I figured this was the next best thing. Not that you'd do field work straight away, but after a few years-” 

Jason tackles him off the bench, and Tim garbles a curse as he hastens to brace himself against the back wall. 

Jason's arms are around his shoulders and neck in the next minute, his lips crushed to Tim's. It makes his swollen cheekbone throb painfully, but Tim's too shocked and too giddy to care. 

When he pulls back for a breath, he gasps, “So that's a yes?” 

“Fucking _yes_ ,” Jason hisses, practically humming like a live wire. “I want to read my contract first - but God, yes! Thank you, thank you!” 

Tim swallows up his gratitude in a ferocious kiss, pulling the other man flush against him. 

Jason fumbles backwards. “Wait, wait,” he insists, sitting back to meet Tim's gaze. “I've got to give you my gift. I got you a birthday gift.” 

“You got me a gift?” Tim asks as Jason sits back on the bench, marks the space between them. “Why didn't you give it to me inside?” 

“Because my gift's not exactly sibling-appropriate,” Jason hedges with a sly grin. 

Tim smirks to himself, absolutely sure of where this is headed. He's not absolutely sure how he knows, but there's something calm and simultaneously energising in Jason's demeanor that broadcasts it to him like a lit airstrip. “Then by all means, please elaborate.” 

And now, faced with the opportunity, Jason blushes. “I want you to put me down. While we, uh…” 

“Fuck?” Tim supplies, and Jason's face scrunches in disapproval. 

“I was trying to be romantic.” 

“Make love?” Tim amends, and Jason looks displeased but less adverse. 

“For lack of a better term, yeah.” 

Tim looks at him, at the way Jason's now coiled tight and defensive, like he's scared Tim will laugh him off. At the way his fingers are biting into one another and his ankle is twitching. At the way there's a deep glimmer of pure, raw vulnerability in his eyes, and he's one twitch of a smile away from shutting up like a steel trap again. 

So Tim keeps his expression neutral and says softly, “This is a really big deal for you, huh?” 

The tension washes out of Jason. He looks floored, floundering a little as he nods and says, “Yeah, I guess. You too.” 

And Tim's not sure how much he's picking at or how much he really knows, but he's not wrong. Not even a few degrees north of not wrong, and a certain part of Tim is terrified by that admission. 

But he can see the ferocity in Jason's gaze, his willingness and determination to do this right and do right by Tim, and it's intoxicating. 

“Then I'm proud of you,” Tim says evenly, injecting every morsel of genuineness he has in him into his tone. “Of us.” 

Jason swallows. The sentimental moment hangs heavy and then passes, and his lips split into something positively wolfish. “So are you going to rail me, or what?” 

“Abso-fucking-lutely,” Tim promises, hands falling to Jason's hips and sliding him up the length of the bench towards him. Jason's warm palms flatten against the sides of Tim's neck as he jerks him closer, kisses him hard. 

Tim's hands jump for Jason's singlet, tugging upwards, but Jason won't let him go, and Tim absently wishes he was carrying a switchblade on him so he could dispense with clothing far more efficiently. Leaves himself a half-written mental note to invest in one later. 

Then he lifts his left hand from Jason's shirt and winds it into the back of his hair, tugging sharply. Jason breaks off him with a gasp, leaning back into the touch, hips canted forward. Tim almost pauses to admire the sight. 

Almost. He tightens his grip for the briefest of seconds, just enough to get Jason's attention, and brushes the flat of his other thumb over one of Jason's nipples. 

“Shirt off. Now,” he orders flatly, and Jason's hands jump to obey him, flinging the material aside in seconds. He's so keen, so eager to please, that his thumbs fall to hook into the waistband of his sweats, pre-empting Tim's next command. 

He stills Jason's hand with his free one, meeting his confused glance with a devilish smile. 

“No, I want to be the one who gets to undress you,” he says lowly, and could swear that a shiver laces violently up Jason's spine. 

“Yes, patron,” Jason says, a perfect mimic of Tim's epithet. He preens at the sound, lacing a sprinkling of half-nips, half-kisses down Jason's exposed throat before he pulls back again. 

“So good,” he praises, and wraps a hand around his side, pulling them closer together. “I'm going to enjoy you, Jason.” 

Jason's eyes darken with that admission, and then Tim's spilling forward to kiss him again. One hand slides down between them to palm him in his sweats, and Jason jolts at the contact, surging upward. Tim jerks back instantly, and relaxes when Jason only looks confused. 

“I'm going to give you a safeword, mon sous,” Tim tells him, and realisation clears Jason's features. “Because even if this is my gift, I want to know when I'm toeing a line. I won't stop entirely, unless you want me to, but I want to know when you're overwhelmed. Okay?” 

Jason nods, and presses a kiss to his jawline, a tiny touch of forgiveness. “What did you have in mind? Rendezvous?” 

Tim shakes his head immediately. “No, that's my safeword. Yours needs to mean something to you.” 

“Like what?” Jason prompts. 

“Like Little Wing,” Tim suggests, and something profound flits across Jason's features before he smiles broadly. 

“Little Wing, then, patron.” 

“Perfect,” Tim answers, and places one hand on Jason's spine, seizing his lips as his hand slips down again. Jason grinds against it with abandon, low throaty moans wringing themselves from his occupied lips. 

Tim pushes him back gently, inhaling sharply when they break apart. He doesn't let go. 

“Okay, Jay,” he says, and shows all his teeth. “My turn to spoil you, because you're so good to me. Lie back, and lace your hands under the bench.” 

Jason holds his gaze for the barest second longer, as if memorising his features, then leans back slowly, flattening out against the upholstery. The angle makes his hips cant up a notch, but he lays his shoulders back and links his hands beneath. 

“Very good,” Tim purrs, running his free hand over his tense abdomen, enjoying the heat. When he's sure Jason's comfortable, that he's not going anywhere, he leans forwards and kisses the rise of his stomach, descends gradually down into the cradle of his hips as Jason huffs softly and breaks out in gooseflesh. 

He can see the bliss smoothing across Jason's face, the disconnected sheen to his eyes as he focuses on the featherlight touches Tim is pressing along his waistband. 

“You going to use French on me?” Jason teases breathlessly. 

“No,” Tim answers, and watches Jason's eyes refocus to fix on him. “I'm only speaking English. I want you to understand exactly how perfect you are to me, exactly as and when I say it.” 

Jason's brow pinches in adulation at the words, and that's a gift all in itself. “Tim…” 

He grins, revelling in how perfect his name sounds on Jason's lips. “I know,” is all Tim says, and then he rolls back the waistband of Jason's pants with his thumbs and chases the callouses with quick kisses. 

By the time he's got Jason's sweats halfway down to his thighs, Jason is shivering fiercely, and Tim can only stand to play this game for so long. 

“You look gorgeous, Jay. The perfect birthday gift.” 

The sub keens at his words, hips twitching reflexively as Tim splays his hands across Jason's thighs and holds him steady. 

“Can I show you just how appreciative I am?” 

“Yes,” Jason chokes, the sound strangled, and Tim wraps his mouth around the head of Jason's cock. “Holy sweet-” 

Tim hums, the sound both in amusement and a reminder, and Jason lapses willingly back into pressed moans. 

Tim's not one to have preferences in the bedroom; he enjoys the whole buffet, so to speak, so he rarely takes the time to distinguish which acts tickle his fancies. But he fucking loves giving head. Receiving too - but there's something about taking someone apart with your hands (figuratively) tied behind your back that _really_ appeals to him. Moreso if _their_ hands are tied. 

So Tim's spent a bit of time cultivating the habit, on both sexes. And he likes to think that he may not be a James Galway, but he's definitely worth remembering. Makes sure of it. 

When Jason slumps back against the bench like he's boneless, and cants his hips up into Tim's mouth, he smiles and makes sure that there's not a single thought left in Jason's mind other than the sensation of how good his mouth feels. Going by the sounds that are ricocheting up through Jason's throat and open jaw, he's pretty sure he's achieved his goal. 

So Tim pulls back, plants a final kiss on Jason's inner thigh, and listens to the man drag in a handful of levelling breaths before he slips down and pushes Jason's legs back. 

Yeah, so, all kinds of giving head. It still brings a smile to Tim's lips as he braces Jason's knees against his shoulders and holds him still. 

When he pulls back up, Jason doesn't look like there's much keeping him down aside from sheer force of will, and Tim can sort of appreciate the difficulty. So he runs one of his own fingers over his tongue and massages the bones of Jason's knee with the other. 

The digit slides free with a lewd pop, and Tim asks, “How're you doing, Jay?” 

Jason doesn't have the words, or he can't string together a sentence, and both are perfectly fine by Tim. So he chuckles and shuffles forward to slide a finger into him, and Jason whines at length. 

“Jesus fuck, you're beautiful,” he murmurs appreciatively, aware that Jason is well and truly down now, is practically bathing in the Mariana Trench. 

So he adds another digit and starts focusing on the motions his fingers are making, crooks them just slightly, until- 

“Fuck!” Jason chokes, and Tim can't think anything other than 'Good choice of word' as his hips jolt upward sharply, and then grind down. 

“Correct me if I'm wrong,” Tim teases, because he'll never pass up a chance to try out his best shit-eating grin for as long as he lives. “Did that feel as good as you look?” 

Words don't form, but Jason makes a muted, half-protesting, half-pleased moan and slides down the bench an inch towards him. Tim chuckles, the sound dark and infinitely delighted. 

“Oh, I'm going to take you apart.” 

Jason looks more than keen for that, so Tim tugs his pants the rest of the way off and pushes his own down his hips. Takes the briefest seconds he needs to yank a foil square out of his pocket and roll the condom on. 

“Are you a walking drugstore?” Jason's disbelieving voice filters up to him. It's only marred slightly by the blissed hush that being down has layered over all of his words. 

Tim freezes, the question punching the breath from him as he laughs and layers himself over Jason, pressing jerking kisses to the fall of his sternum. “God, I love you,” he says, slipping his knees under Jason's thighs, and guides himself into Jason. 

The man stutters on a breath, tensing briefly before he releases, slipping into Tim's lap. 

“That's it, Jay,” Tim purrs, the sound a little strained as he exhales and slides a hand into the arch of Jason's back. And he is arching, determined both to keep to Tim's order of lying his shoulders flat against the bench and to ease him in by wrapping his calves around Tim's hips. It's a beautiful conundrum. 

Tim can really, really appreciate the thought. He drives the last of it out of him as he pulls back very slightly and slams into him. 

Jason's hands come apart beneath the bench, leaping up to cling to Tim's ribs and neck respectively. They're trembling, a pitter patter of hot skin against Tim's paler complexion. 

Tim slides both his hands up the length of Jason's spine and lifts him into his lap, lets him adjust as his weight shifts and he sinks at a whole new angle. 

Then he pauses to drink in the sight of him and let Jason catch some of his breath. “How're you doing, Jay?” 

Jason sews together enough of a rational thought to press a slow and gentle trail of kisses down the line of Tim's throat. “Easy does it, patron,” he replies muggily, partly a quip and partly a warning. 

Tim had expected that, actually, which is why he drags his hands down from the cradle they form against Jason's shoulder blades and layers them over the rise of his hips. “This is all you, Jay,” he assures him, meets his stunned blue gaze. “I want you to do this for me.” 

Jason takes a few seconds to get his bearings, hooking his feet backwards around Tim's knees to give him some stability, forces his legs open a little more, and then he pushes Tim back against the cold wall and _rides_ him. 

A very, very distant, distracted part of Tim wonders if this is Jason's version of revenge; an enthusiastic response to being taken apart by nothing but Tim's mouth. Because Tim's expertise might lie in the way he can sculpt his lips and hollow his cheeks, but God, the things Jason can do with his hips are to _die for_. 

By the time the fatigue starts catching up with Jason, Tim's already a boneless mess against the back wall. Jason revives him by leaning forward and sucking a hickey into the muscle between his neck and shoulder, and wrapping a hand around his own dick, his fingers brushing Tim's abdomen. 

“Still with me, patron?” Jason asks, and Tim groans and nods plaintively. He chuckles lowly, and kisses him, slow and deep. “Going to need your help.” 

Oh, that smug, clever bastard. Because yeah, Tim might be domming this scene, but Jason's the one who's giving him the real opportunity to provide, and Tim latches on to that with all his being and cants his hips up into Jason. 

Jason cries out, his fumbling hand finding Tim's as their fingers lace. Then he slams Tim's hand back against the wall beside his head and meets him halfway. Tim notes that he's timing the motions of his closed fist with the roll of Tim's hips, and that's enough to send him hurtling over the edge. 

When they both come back up for air - and Jason takes a notedly longer time to come up from that orgasm, which doesn't go unappreciated by Tim's ego - Tim rubs circles into the small of Jason's back as he lays across Tim's chest and sucks in deep breaths. 

“You up?” Tim asks softly, and Jason hums in a pleased tone and nuzzles against his sweat-slicked neck. He wraps his arms around Tim's ribs, and the dual winces at his cold palms. “Christ, you must be freezing.” 

“You said you loved me,” Jason murmurs blearily against his throat, and Tim pauses. 

“Yeah, I did,” he admits finally, unable to gauge where that sits between them. “I'm not taking it back,” he adds, when the silence lingers. 

Jason huffs and smiles, out of sight. “Thank you, Tim.” 

He grins. “You going to say it back?” 

“Your dick is in my ass,” Jason retorts bluntly, the wry smirk evident in his tone. “I'm not saying it right now, no.” 

“That's cruel.” 

Jason hums nonchalantly. “Ask me again when your head's between my thighs.” 

“Christ, and you kiss your mother with that mouth?” Tim teases, nipping at his hairline. 

Jason stirs, sits back to meet his gaze. “I kiss you with this mouth,” he points out, and seals Tim's retort up with his lips. 


	7. Asseverate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter tags:**
> 
> i. Physical abuse, sexual abuse, pedophilia, character POV panic attack  
> ii. Medical procedures, major injury, minor character death  
> iii. Character POV panic attack, verbal threats, minor injury  
> iv. Implied sexual content (consensual), fellatio, alcohol use 
> 
> Please message me if I have missed any tags, so they can be added.

He doesn't expect the drop. 

He's shivering so hard it wakes him from a dream, and his jaw's clenched so tight it hurts even more when he releases the pressure. 

He rolls out of bed, fumbling to his feet and towards the nearest doorway as quietly as he can manage, so as not to wake the other man sleeping peacefully on the other side of the bed. He folds himself into a corner of the closet, tucks his knees up to his chest and tries to focus on why he could possibly be here. 

It's unexpected and unwelcome and unjustified. It feels like he's gone through a sheet of ice into a frozen-over lake. The shock to his nervous system is hell, but added to that, he's having a real hard time orienting himself in this house that's barely lived in. 

He tucks his chin behind his crooked knees and tries to convince himself it's fine, he's fine, and this too will pass. 

A stubborn part of him knows that this shouldn't be fucking happening, has no immediate reason to come a-knocking. 

The other part of him - the quiet, resigned part that knows his history - reminds him that shit like this has dredged up the past before, and he should have expected it to come up again. 

And quite frankly, he just doesn't have the tools to handle a drop. Certainly not a dom drop. Those fuckers are rarer than the day is long, and he hasn't dropped in a solid eleven fucking months. 

But as much as frustration and reason add valid fuel to the argument, the fact remains the same: Tim's in drop, and he's not anywhere near capable of dealing with it. 

He comes to this realisation fully somewhere around the time he starts hallucinating. 

And he knows he's fucking hallucinating; he doesn't need some well-meaning bystander to fill him in. Because he _knows_ , God damn it, but knowing doesn't stop him seeing it. 

So Tim screws his eyes shut and presses back the bile that's rising in his throat, and breathes hard and deep through his nose. Remembers that he fucking hates the hallucinations - both auditory and visual - but he hates the sensations more. 

Hates the feeling of soft, considerate hands on his shoulders, brushing down his arms. Hates the crook of a teasing finger under his chin and the _feel_ of her smile. Can see it painted across the back of his eyelids like a splash of red paint on a white wall, can smell her perfume in his- 

Tim chokes a sob up through his strangled throat. Let's the cold air slice some of the hallucinations away. But his lungs adjust, as they're so cleverly designed to do, and the cold air isn't cold anymore, it's just air, and it tastes like butterscotch on the back of his tongue. 

Tim compacts down. 

Physically, he tightens his arms around his legs and fuses his forehead to his knees. Tries to focus on the stiffness in his neck to distract him, but it's barely there. Not enough to take him off track, not yet. 

Mentally, he latches onto the most neutral thing he can discern in this whirlwind of sense-memories. It's the butterscotch. 

Sweet and creamy, with just the barest hint of salt. Rolling around on the back of his tongue until it coats the walls of his mouth, sweetens the roof. 

Tim focuses on the butterscotch, stretches the memory out like taffy between his fingers, and prays that it won't snap. 

But it does, because it was always going to. 

It's not a hard snap. Like taffy, it just sort of pries its way in, little slices of thin air that breech into pockets and then swathes while he shakes and sweats and clings to the butterscotch. 

He rolls the candy around his tongue again, like he's been told, and slots it behind his lower row of teeth. Flattens the muscle over it and waits. 

His lips come apart slowly, the motion soft and gentle, barely more than a breath. Then slow and wet swiping over the curves of his lips, dipping into the corners of his mouth. She presses inside, and Tim chokes on the memory of wanting to bite down, to taste copper and salt and blood and know that it would stop. 

But that's not a memory - it's a wish, and wishes have no hold here. 

It's an odd sensation, somewhat slippery, slightly ticklish. Tracing into the undulations of his teeth, every one of them, and then sliding over the walls of his mouth. Touching the roof, enough to have him squirming very slightly at the feel of it before it dips down and prods at his tongue, coaxes it upright and around and any way it wants to. Like a dance, of sorts. 

The butterscotch hitches lose under its ministrations, and Tim opens his eyes. 

She's smiling. It twinkles in her eyes, brightens the blue from a dusk sky to a midsummer's day. It's sweltering with promise and intrigue, and Tim can't look anywhere else with how close they are. Let's himself get swallowed up as she pulls back, the butterscotch candy on her tongue. She sees him see it, and then it withdraws into her mouth. 

Her hands don't leave his jawline, where they're bracketed over his cheeks. But she frowns slightly, like she's concentrating on a hard thought, and rolls the candy around her mouth, mimicking his movements. Or, he was mimicking hers. 

She smiles when she's done, and pulls him forwards slightly, towards her blue eyes, prompting him. 

Tim tries to copy her motions. Closes his eyes and kisses the plump curl of her lower lip, pushes inside to lick at the sweet salt on her teeth and mouth and tongue. It comes to life under his attentions, tangling with his, dragging him deeper, until he uncovers the candy. 

She lets him leverage it out, the motion clumsy and stilted. It catches on her teeth and sets him back, but he persists, because he wants to do this for her, wants to give her this. That's what he thinks, anyway. 

He frowns with the effort, wrapping his slick tongue around the butterscotch, finally, and she pulls back to let him take it. 

But it's too soon, and he's not ready, and he doesn't have a proper grip on it. 

The candy dribbles down his chin with his dismayed cry, clattering to the floorboards somewhere between his feet and her knees. 

The rush of shame, of disappointment, is so strong it nearly suffocates him. The knowledge that he was supposed to do this, for her, that he was supposed to give her this, and he didn't, he hasn't, and what a _failure-_  

She smiles, and tells him he tried and that he did well. She ruffles his hair, stroking long, ringless fingers through his dark locks as she tells him it's okay and they can always try again another day. 

But Tim can see the terse pull at the corners of her mouth, the way she tries to hide her exasperation, her marvelling at how he could fail at something so _simple-_

It's not the first time she'd asked something of him. Asked him to provide part of himself for her. Not the last time either. 

He'd been yearning for her approval, seeking it out, long before she'd plucked a butterscotch from behind his ear and told him she'd heard of a wonderful game and would he like to try it? 

He'd needed the attention. He wasn't getting it at home, for all the understandable reasons, and speaking up in class had turned to speaking out and _then_ he had her attention. Had a complete monopoly on her time, so long as it was after the bell rang and before Bruce came to collect him at the front gate. 

He'd cherished those hours with her. Prayed that Bruce would run late, and he'd have more time to prove himself to her. Some days he did, some days he didn't. Those days left a gaping hole in his chest that festered raw and untempered until she let him try again, until he could prove that he was capable of providing whatever she needed.  

And hours turned to days and days to weeks. Butterscotch kisses became open-mouthed ministrations above the collar of her shirt and his shirt, and Tim was getting so _good_ at mimicking her. 

And he'd had a growth spurt in the last month, nearly a whole two inches, and he was gushing with headstrong pride because she had noticed. She had spotted it the second he'd walked into class, and ushered him up against the wall near the door to mark his height on the chart where everyone could see. 

And then that afternoon she'd pressed him back against the wall and her hands had been soft and warm and ticklish on his arms and ribs and stomach. And he'd felt like he was glowing, it had lit him up so much. 

The sob that presses from his throat is more a moan than a cry. It's flat and guttural and barely has anything behind it. Certainly not enough volume to wake Jason in the bed in the next room over, or his siblings clinging to their partners down the hall. 

Resentment is a strong word. Tim doesn't resent people, doesn't really have it in him. It's just not him. 

He doesn't resent his father, for handling his friend's loss as best he could, for throwing himself into his work and convincing himself that if he could just get a handle on this, he could get a handle on managing five kids again and everything would be alright. If he'd resented him, he wouldn't have tried so hard to distract him. 

He doesn't resent that woman, for taking his first kiss and giving him a whole hoard of knowledge he wouldn't use again until he had a boy his age pressed up against the bleachers behind the baseball pitch with his hands shaking and his pulse so damn hot it was glowing in his veins. If he’d resented her, he wouldn't have screamed at his father the day he'd walked into his classroom and laid her out with a broken nose and a chipped tooth. 

He doesn't resent his siblings, for their perfect, easy relationships and the way they slide through milestones like they're bases, and he can't get close to anyone or let anyone touch his hair or press him back against a bed because it reminds him too much of a desk, and they haven't noticed in nearly seventeen fucking years, and if he's careful maybe they never will. If he resented them, he wouldn't appreciate how much Barbara smooths down his rough edges without knowing where they're hidden, or how Dick lets him over-provide in service scenes, to the extent that it's childish. 

Tim doesn't resent the people in his life. Doesn't resent the people who have wronged him, intentionally or carelessly or otherwise, and he probably won't resent the people yet to wrong him. It's just not _him_. 

But he's a mess, and a Goddamned wreck, and he _knows_ it. Everyone fucking knows it, they just don't know why. They know he's having hallucinations but they can't see them, and it's so frustrating to be reminded because they have no idea. 

They mean well, and he's _grateful,_ but God, he just wishes it were easier, or it weren't him. Either. Both. Whatever works so that he doesn't have to stomach this anymore. Doesn't have to hurry a date out of his apartment in the wee hours of the morning so he can drop in peace. Doesn't have to wince every time someone refers to him as ‘cute’ and ‘sweetheart’ and ‘pet’ and ‘geez, it's just a name, don't freak out over it’. Doesn't have to laugh off why he has the biggest sweet tooth in the family but can't stand the sight of butterscotch candies. 

The thought is cold and unpleasant, and it slithers through his mind, between the pillars of provision that he can't ever seem to see through. Touches over a new shoreline, and Tim recoils from it. 

Because what if they resent _him_? 

Resent him for being such a difficult child and a problematic attention-seeker. Resent him for being a paltry substitute for something he couldn't give and an improvised stand-in for something he could never be. Resent him for being the fucked up brother who didn't know what he wanted to do or who he wanted to be and still doesn't know, not really. 

And suddenly it's not about not being able to provide, it's about not being able to please. 

Tim slides sharply from his dom drop, segues into a sub drop like he's breaking the surface of the water, only to find he's still drowning. It feels different, and not by much, but Tim clings to that. Lets the current take him swifting away from this memory and into another. Prays that maybe this time it will be more forgiving on his dynamic, on his sentimentality.  

 

* * *

 

When he opens his eyes again, he's staring down an LED-lit hallway. Doors portion the walls at even intervals, and various mobile machines are scattered down the LVT. 

Tim knows he should feel reluctant, should be hesitant to be back here, but he isn't. It just feels familiar, like a second home. He's spent so many shifts wandering this wing that he'd know it blindfolded. So he sticks his hands in his pockets and wanders towards the bustling nurse station. 

The centrepiece of the ward is alive with motion, and Tim leans a hip against the desk nearest the outgoing pigeonhole and watches the nurse there thumb through a file. “Got something for me?” 

“I've got an elderly woman with a shattered femur in room fifteen, or a guy who came in to emergency with an arrow in his knee.” 

“Oh, Skyrim-guy, please,” Tim chirps, and the nurse smirks as she passes him the file. 

“He's just about to come out of surgery. Due to be in room 206-” She checks the watch hanging from her breast pocket. “-right about now. Thompson was operating, so you should have a nice clean stitch.” 

Tim flicks through the file, checking the obs charts. “They gave him endone in emergency? No analgesia in the ambulance?” He consults the admittance slip. “Ah, a walk-in. That's a low BP.” 

“Yeah, he nicked an artery,” she explains as she kicks the nearest vacant chair towards the only unattended monitor. Tim watches her sign in and pull up her shift notes. “Was out hunting with some friends and caught a stray arrow from another posse. His friends did a solid job on the tourniquet, probably saved most of his leg. They're due to give him a transfusion once he's in recovery.” 

Tim snaps the file closed with one hand. “I'll go say hello then.” 

“I'm off in twenty minutes,” she calls after him, “so I'll catch you on your next shift.” 

Tim waves back at her and turns down the corridor towards the room. He's maybe eleven hours into his shift, and the standard issue clock above the hallway door tells him it's nudging ten o'clock. Most of the wards are in their wind-down phase, settling everyone in for the night, but the orthopaedic ward is still going fairly strong. 

There's a handful of figures laid out on beds in each of the rooms, and Tim wanders to the very end of the row before he finds his patient. 

The guy looks about Tim's age, has a mess of dark hair pushed back up off his sweat-streaked forehead. He's propped upright in bed, a mountain of pillows behind him as he leans back with a dazed, tired smile on his features. There's a cannula in the crook of his elbow, and a deep red bag feeding into the infusion pump on his IV pole. 

The nurse who's checking his heart rate casts him a wayward glance. “Eyes open. Need to make sure you stay conscious for just a little longer. Then we only need to monitor you for a few more minutes and you can sleep.” 

The man peels his eyelids back with a crooked grin. “Promise?” 

The RN smirks and wraps a blood pressure cuff around his bicep. “Absolutely. Just got to do your blood pressure for your charts.” 

“What's his heart rate?” Tim asks softly, takes up a perch leaning against the empty bed opposite. 

The RN gives him the barest glance before replying, “His heart rate is 102 bpm.” 

Tim hums, meets the man's gaze. “How're you feeling?” 

“Fuckin' tired,” he responds. “I'm guessing you're my doctor?” 

“Tim Drake. I'm the resident assigned to your case, so,” Tim shrugs impartially, “next best thing to a doctor. How's the leg, Whiterun?” 

The man laughs. It's lined with heavy fatigue, but its a genuine, mirthful laugh, and Tim finds his lips curling in a contagious smile. “Fuck, I'm not going to live that nickname down, am I?” 

“Probably not,” Tim responds. 

“I'm Conner,” the man introduces, and Tim nods. 

“I read your file,” he explains as the nurse quips, “He's 101 over 75.” 

The man must catch Tim's concerned expression. “That's bad?” 

“101 systolic?” Tim confirms, and the nurse nods. He meets Conner's gaze. “It's not great. But you did lose a few pints of blood, and you've just come out of surgery. Even with that transfusion, I'd expect you to have pretty low blood pressure. So we'll monitor it.” 

This seems to calm Conner, because he slumps back into the pillows, and wiggles his hips into a more comfortable position while making every effort not to jostle his bandaged leg. He still winces, all the same. 

“You're in some pain?” Tim asks, and Conner gives a shaky sigh and nods. “The anaesthetic will be wearing off. Can you give me a rating - one being very mild and ten being unbearable?” 

“Seven-point-five?” Conner says back, frowning as he closes his eyes. “Maybe eight.” 

Maybe it's the fifth coffee talking, or the thirty hours of sleep Tim's managed to wrack up over the past week. Maybe it's the way Conner smiles like he can bear it, or Tim's not-so-dormant d-tendencies drifting to the surface. Maybe it's the fact that the guy's been through hell in the past three hours and still has the decency to laugh at Tim's joke. It could have been a fateful combination of all of them. 

“Give him a morphine drip,” Tim instructs the RN. She shucks the blood pressure cuff off his arm and strolls off to check out a morphine pump. 

Conner breathes a pleased sigh, and nestles back into the pillows with a dumb smile. “Sweet.” 

Tim chuckles. “It'll help you sleep easier,” he assures him, crossing his arms over his chest and shifting his weight to his other leg before leaning back against the empty bed. “Once you're up again we'll get a physical therapist in to check your range of movement. You should be discharged in the next day or so.” 

“Just in time for the last week of the season.” 

Tim laughs. “You're still going hunting after this?” 

“Absolutely,” Conner responds with a grin, and opens his eyes to meet Tim's gaze. “I've still got two bucks on my licence. I'm not wasting them. D'you hunt?” 

Tim shrugs. “Used to hunt with my dad. But that was out near the Washington-Jefferson National Forest. Haven't been in nearly ten years.” 

“There's some good game up in there,” Conner says appreciatively. “You got a favourite rifle?” 

“We used Rugers,” Tim replies, and watches the RN wheel a morphine pump up to Conner's bedside. “But now I mostly do photography out there.” 

Conner nods. “Good taste. I used to use a Winchester, but I've used Rugers before. My hunting party uses Hoyt Carbons now. We prefer bow hunting; adds a new layer of skill to it.” 

“I can see that,” Tim says skeptically, and nods towards his wrapped knee. 

Conner laughs, and presents his other arm for the morphine cannula. “I have a question.” 

“Shoot. 'Scuse the pun.” 

Conner chuckles good-naturedly, and Tim can feel them slipping into an easy rhythm. “How likely is it that I'm going to be back out before the season ends?”  

“With your leg like that?” Tim queries as the nurse feeds the IV tubing into the cannula. “I'd recommend bed rest for at least four days, and light movement for the next fortnight.” 

“So not going to fill my licence, huh?” 

“Probably not this year.” 

“Ah, there's always next year,” Conner replies wistfully, and glances down at the cannula with a surprised expression. “Wow, that morphine moves fast.” 

“Should really kick in in the next few minutes,” Tim advises with a gentle smile, and Conner lists back into the pillows, his eyes slipping shut. 

“Am I good to sleep now? Do you need me awake anymore?” he mumbles to the nurse, who smirks at him. 

“Five more minutes while I monitor you, then you're clear,” she advises, and he straightens with a low groan, peeling his eyelids back with effort. Tim smirks, and steps forward to consult the readout on the morphine pump before clearing the nurse to punch in the application rates. 

“Thompson did the operation?” Tim asks her, for conversation's sake. 

“In and out in an hour,” she replies, and adjusts the hand with the cannula in the back of it, tucking the tubing between Conner's elbow and the bed rail. “I'll supervise him for the morphine and then write up his ADDS. You due to sign off soon?” 

Tim yawns, scrubs a hand down the right side of his face. “One more hour. Then I can clock out. How about you?” 

“Midway point,” she commiserates. 

He straightens, letting the blood flow return to his legs. Conner glances over at him as he approaches the bed. “I'll check in on you tomorrow morning, see that your blood work is improving.” 

“Fair enough,” Conner says around a yawn. 

“See you tomorrow,” Tim signs off, and steps out. He checks in at the nurses station to skim through the outgoing files and heads to check in on his last patient. 

He's checking the octogenarian's ADDS chart when the MET call is made. It splits the quiet ward with a shrill fast-paced alarm, and Tim ducks into the hallway to consult the monitor. Realises with a sinking pit in his stomach that Conner's room number is blaring back at him from the screen. 

In his pocket, his mobile starts to buzz, and Tim stabs at the call button as he takes off at a flat run, spitting a breathless, “Yeah, I see it,” down the line. 

“It's your patient,” the RN at the other end confirms. “206.” 

“On my way,” he answers, shoving the phone into his pocket as he rounds the corner into Conner's room at the same time as another RN. Conner's been laid out on the floor, the tubing still running from his arms to the stagnant drips. Tim approaches the nurse kneeling at his side, demanding, “What happened?” 

“He's not breathing,” she responds levelly, and Tim registers the blue hue of his lips and his swollen eyelids. “It's anaphylaxis.” 

The other RN is already dashing back to the nurses station by the time she's saying, “I need adrenaline.” 

“Have you tried compressions?” Tim asks, pressing his fingers into Conner's warm, flushed throat. It feels swollen, the muscles tight beneath Tim's fingertips. He sounds like he's gargling sand, the sound thick and strained. 

“No, his throat's swollen shut,” she replies, sliding a cuff onto his arm with practised efficiency. 

Tim wraps a hand around his chin and glances into the column of his throat. Sees nothing but irritated, wet red flesh. “Have you got a pulse?” he voices clearly, settling into damage control. 

“Weak but yes. His blood pressure's very low.” 

Tim's startlingly aware. The bloodloss alone would have dropped his blood pressure to barely acceptable levels during the surgery, and the morphine's not going to do it any favours. But the anaphylaxis has essentially propped open the door to his blood vessels. His blood pressure is dumping. 

“I've got 90 over 50,” the nurse reports, and Tim winds a hand down to check the pulse at his wrist. It's fluttering like a butterfly's wings, light and panicked against the insistent press of his fingers. 

The RN slides back into the room with an epipen in hand, and Tim clears back to let her stab it into his thigh. 

“How long has he been unconscious?” Tim demands of the first nurse. 

“He was unconscious when I came back to check on him. Anywhere up to four minutes.” 

More nurses are appearing in the doorway, assessing the situation as Tim feels Conner's pulse stretch and wane against his fingertips. 

“Fuck,” Tim spits as a pair of nurses round the corner and take in the scene. He rips open Conner's gown, exposing his fluttering chest as he releases his wrist. “We've got tachycardia. Get me a cart and standby. Start compressions.” 

The nurse all but dives onto his chest, leaning down to administer CPR as they wait impatiently for the adrenaline to kick in and take down the swelling. Tim stabs nails into his palms while he waits for the attending EN to wheel in the resus cart. 

He's achingly aware that they're edging into syncope hypoxemia now, that Conner's brain is starving even as his swelling starts to alleviate. The other RN, whose fingers are bruising around his wrist, answers Tim's unspoken question and declares, “I've got no pulse.” 

Tim reacts instinctually. Relieves the nurse performing compressions as she pulls back to catch her breath. Wraps one hand in his other and presses it against where he knows Conner's failing heart is. Starts clipping out a rhythm as he counts under his breath. Feels a rib click and snap beneath his palm. “Where's my cart?” Tim bellows towards the empty corridor. 

Conner's still not responsive when the cart materialises six seconds later. 

“Clear!” Tim orders, and takes the pads off the nearest responding nurse. Presses one askew of Conner's sternum and the other against his ribcage. 

“Clear,” the RN confirms loudly, and Conner jolts beneath him, the voltage singing through his chest. The other nurse starts up mouth-to-mouth again, compressing his lungs methodically as Tim counts to thirty under his breath. A few terse beats as the RN consults his wrist and then, “Nothing.” 

Tim bares his teeth, checking the machine as it counts down. Calls the clear and settles back as it fires again. Conner arches and collapses exactly the same. 

“Fuck me!” Tim bellows and waits impatiently while they administer compressions again and try desperately to pump oxygen into his lungs. The minutes start to bleed together as Tim waits for a response, any improvement, and then lets the defibrillator administer again. Switches out with the nurse on every other set of compressions. 

He must kneel there for ten minutes, folded over the unresponsive, unmoving man as he tries to jumpstart his circulatory system. The nurse at Conner's wrist gives faint updates to mark his progress, and it's the only thing that lets Tim push past the fatigue in his arms and the vice around his lungs. 

Figures come into the room, and Tim doesn't even register them until the RN performing compressions sits back on her heels. 

“Get him breathing,” he bleats at the nurse, who watches him with a solemn expression and doesn't move. Tim stares at her, finally glances up at his supervisor, who's standing beside the bed and looming like an undertaker in a pressed white coat. His hands still. “How long is it?” 

“Eleven minutes since crash,” she answers quietly, and Tim withdraws his clenched fists. Stares down at the slack body beneath them with growing trepidation and overwhelming numbness. 

“Time,” he orders weakly. 

“Time of death,” the orthopedist recites, and glances at her watch. “Ten thirty-three p.m.” 

Tim slides away then, takes a broad step back from the body as the RN kills the defibrillator. Let's the nurses clear the scene as his supervising orthopedist calls for a Form 1A. 

He runs down his report of the incident in a blank, soft tone as his supervisor records his dictation, until he's dismissed. Tim finds himself back at the nurses station, his shift end thirty minutes overdue as he leans against the front desk. 

“Somebody get me Conner Kent's file,” Tim instructs numbly, and stands there until someone presses the burgundy file into his bruised fingertips. 

He flicks through the admittance slip, the medical history. Finds nothing. 

“There's no allergy listed,” he informs no one in particular, lets his eyes sweep the very brief medical history. “Hasn't even reported a broken bone before. Probably never been administered morphine.” Tim can feel the pressure building behind his skull, the buzzing between his ears. He shoves the file towards the nearest AIN and mutters, “Excuse me.” 

 

* * *

 

Tim surfaces with a painful crick in his neck and his arms wrapped around his knees. He expects to see Barbara leaning up against the doorframe to his closet; Damian is a surprise. 

“Hey, big brother,” he says evenly, calmly, and Tim shifts to straighten his spine out, unfurls from the curl he's adopted for the past few hours. 

“Where's Babs?” he asks immediately, and Damian isn't fazed. 

“Had to take a call from Dinah,” Damian answers. “Not sure she really knew how to deal with this drop anyway.” 

“She's a quack.” 

“And a dom,” Damian points out, and flattens out his legs. There's something about the fact that he's technically blocking the only exit that tweaks Tim's nerves. 

“So why you? Why not Cass? Or Steph?” 

“We're both duals. And they don't get sub drops.” 

“Dick's a sub.” 

“ _We're_ duals.” 

“Jason's also a sub,” Tim interjects, not letting this go. “A sub with plenty of drop experience.” 

Damian chews the inside of his lip and finally crosses his arms over his chest. “Jason bailed.” 

That hurts more than Tim expected. “Oh,” he says stiffly. 

Damian recognises the tone. “Don't do that. Steph practically had to drag him out. He was a few seconds from going into a sympathy drop just from the sight of you.” 

Ah, there's the guilt. Hot and pungent, searing up through his lungs and throat. 

“That's why I didn't want to tell you,” Damian points out, surveying him from afar as Tim pushes half upright. “Knew you'd get shitty about it.” 

“So you're stuck with me.” 

“I volunteered,” Damian corrects scathingly. “But thanks for the vote of confidence. How're you feeling?” 

“Hungry.” 

“Alfred's cooking. Should be ready any minute. Babs' going to bring some snacks up soon too,” Damian explains, and crosses his arms over his chest. “Are you going to talk to me about it?” 

Tim tosses him a glare, feels the cold perspiration sliding down his temple and realises he must look like he's just pulled up from a nosedive withdrawal. “Are you going to let me not?” 

“No.” 

Tim bares teeth and hisses, hunkering down against the wall. “What do I have to say to get you to fuck off?” 

“I'm not Babs. You can't just say what I want to hear and expect me to be on my merry way. You look like absolute shit, Tim,” Damian declares, with feeling, and sweeps him with an equally heated glare. “You haven't dropped in - what, a year? Especially not a dual drop. So yes, we're going to talk about this.” 

“No,” Tim growls, and Damian's gaze heats. 

“Just no?” he says pointedly. 

“Just no.” 

Damian sucks his teeth and fixes his gaze halfway up the doorframe. “Okay then.” 

It takes a few minutes before Tim realises he's not going to leave. That he's fully intending to stake out the doorway until Tim caves. The realisation ratchets up his paranoia something fierce. 

“This is childish,” Tim snarls in Damian's direction. 

“You're not wrong,” he replies coolly, his gaze not shifting. Tim's nails bite into his palms. 

“I'm a fucking adult! I don't need you or Barbara or Cass _babying_ me every time my dynamic plays up. It's fine. I'm managing it. Fuck off!” 

“You're not managing shit!” Damian snaps back, turning the full force of his glare on Tim. “You seem to be under the impression that you're fine, and you're fucking _not_. And all of us can see it. You're the only one buying into your own bullshit, Tim. Time to wake up.” 

“You want to talk about bullshit?” Tim bellows, loud even in his own ears. “Sure, let's talk about bullshit. How's Jon doing, Damian? Sounded pretty serious last night. Do you always have pillow talk with that much argument, or is this just a special occasion?” 

Damian looks ready to tear Tim's head off. His tone is astoundingly level. “Not that it's any of your _motherfucking_ business, but yes, we were fighting.” 

“Oh, pray tell,” Tim sneers. “Was it about you belittling Jon's dynamic, or do you save that just for me?” 

“It was about me transferring departments, actually.” That's shocking enough to cut through some of Tim's misplaced rage, and he starts. 

“Transferring?” 

“He doesn't want me to. I think it's a good opportunity. We're arguing. It's civil.” 

Tim feels like he should be apologising, but he doesn't fucking want to right now. So he stays silent and scratches at his wrists. 

“You finished deflecting now?” Damian asks pointedly. “Can we go back to dealing with _your_ shit instead of parading out mine?” 

“Hypocrite,” Tim mutters, but Damian hears it. 

“If you want to talk about relationships, we can drag yours out into the open too, Tim. I'm trying to be courteous, but we can do away with that if you want to make this a shitfight.” When Tim hesitates, he adds bluntly, “Talk. And keep talking until I tell you not to.” 

“You going to scene me, are you?” 

Damian's gaze flashes. “Maybe if I did this shit would be a lot easier to manage. Is that what you want, Tim?” 

“You couldn't hold down a decent scene if I paid you to,” Tim says coldly, and watches the fury fill Damian from head to toe. 

He's spared from Damian's wrath by Barbara appearing in the doorway to the closet, a tray of orange slices and other assorted dried fruits in hand. The bright smile slips from her features as she glances between the two of them, abundantly aware of the tension in the room. Damian hasn't torn his gaze off Tim yet, and Tim's unwilling to give him an opening. 

“Get out,” Damian orders in a low tone, and it takes them both a moment to realise he's referring to Barbara. 

She starts, glances down at him. “Excuse me?” 

“Get out, Babs,” Damian repeats, and pulls himself to his feet. Tim follows suit, unwilling to be at a disadvantage. “And shut the door.” 

Barbara's gaze flickers to Tim, as if requesting an explanation, and then back again. “Are you going to hit him?” When he doesn't reply immediately, she says sharply, “Damian.” 

“If he needs to be hit, I'll hit him.” 

“Get fucked,” Tim spits by way of response, and Barbara casts him a look that conveys that he's not helping. 

“I deal with combative people for a living, Tim,” Damian reminds him, “but you really take the cake.” 

“I swear I will call Bruce back here,” Barbara threatens hotly, and they both soundly overlook her. 

“I've broken your jaw once and I'll do it again, Damian,” Tim warns, because he had. It had been an accident, but the end result was the same. 

“Shut up, Tim,” Barbara chides, at the same moment Damian snarls, “I'll put you so far down you'll apologise twice over for that.” 

Barbara changes tacts immediately, horrified. “Damian!” 

Tim can feel that he's trembling, his bones rattling from head to toe. “Sure you will,” he sneers with rich disbelief, and Damian launches forwards. 

His fingers wind in Tim's shirt, but not before Tim's knuckles are grazing his cheek. He reels back, not relinquishing his hold, and pulls Tim off balance. 

He's vaguely aware of Barbara dashing to the open doorway, tray of fruit abandoned. “Cass! Dick!” she yells into the hallway, and Tim's world spins as Damian jerks him upright sharply. 

“Apologise,” he orders, his words pressed between gritted teeth. The motion makes Tim's head spin, and his hand jumps to Damian's chest to pry himself out of his grip. 

“Fucking make me,” Tim spits, and slams a fist into his diaphragm. Mostly because he knows it'll hurt like a bitch, and mostly so he can enjoy the way Damian folds over, sucking in a sharp breath. 

Then he's knocking Tim's ankles out from under him, and Tim's cascading backwards into the wall. Damian follows him down, knees on either side of Tim's thighs as he draws his fist back and hits him. 

It hurts, but Tim's too distracted by how fucking _close_ he is, all of his dynamic sensibilities recoiling at the proximity. Tim can't concentrate, so it takes another blow before he has the sense to reach up and yank Damian's forehead down, headbutting him. 

Damian reels, collapsing half against the wall and bracing with his elbow. 

Tim hitches his knee up to his chin and drives his heel into the dip of Damian's hipbone, heaving. He goes sprawling back against the wall by the door, scrambling to catch himself. 

When he stills, they glare at each other, panting. Tim can see the knuckles of Damian's hand flexing, can feel his own hands trembling from exerting himself so soon after a drop. His head is spinning, he's too dehydrated for this shit, but be damned if he's going to concede to Damian. 

Dick appears then, swallowing up the light in the doorway. He takes one look down at Damian and advances on Tim, who snarls and tries to fling himself at Damian. 

Dick catches him before he makes it halfway, because he's five foot ten and has twenty pounds on Tim. Drags him back and shoves him against the wall. Crouches in front of him to block him in and cut off his view of Damian. 

Tim is vaguely aware of Cass bodily dragging Damian out of the closet, amidst a flurry of yelling and gestures. But his entire being is fixated on Dick, on how he's boxed into a corner and hasn't got an exit. He's recoiling from the way Dick is staring him down, his gaze pointed. 

“Look at me,” he says softly. He has to repeat it again before Tim drags his eyes up. “Who hit first?” 

“I did,” Tim mumbles, and Dick nods. 

“Are you hurt?” 

Tim shrugs petulantly, and keeps his gaze on his hands, in his lap. He flexes them, opening his fists and closing them again to relieve the aching. 

Dick sighs, but there's no impatience there. “Can I look at your face?” 

Tim must wince, the idea that someone might touch him so soon after a drop too raw to bear, because Dick compromises. 

“Can you turn your head for me, so I can check for bruising?” 

Tim doesn't reply, just leans his head back against the plaster and fixes his gaze on Dick's right ear. He doesn't invade any more of Tim's space, but he leans over to inspect his cheekbone in the light. 

“It'll probably bruise. We'll get you some ice for it,” Dick promises evenly, and Tim can't explain why, but his throat feels suddenly tight at the tenderness in his tone. “I'm sorry, but you're not going to leave until you talk to me about this. Even a little.” 

“Fuck Damian,” Tim mutters, because it's all he can manage right now. His throat hurts. 

“That's a start,” Dick says without inflection. “What did you say to start a fight?” 

Tim considers arguing the point, but Dick knows them both well enough to know that nine times out of ten Tim's the instigator. “I told him he couldn't scene for shit.” 

Dick sighs, and _there's_ their older brother shining through. “You're going to apologise for that later. What else did you say?” 

Tim thinks back, runs back through the interaction. He's vaguely aware that Dick's testing for a concussion, but he's too frayed to care. “I brought his and Jon's dynamic into it. And I threatened to break his jaw again.” 

“That was an accident.” 

“Still did it.” 

“Alright,” Dick concedes, and Tim's reminded that he's unbelievably pacifist for a guy in an enforcement profession. “Want to walk me through your drop?” 

“Not really,” Tim replies honestly. 

“Okay,” Dick agrees. “You don't have to tell me then. But I do want you to walk me through how you felt during it.” 

Tim sighs, because it's the best deal he's going to get between his meddling siblings. “Like shit.” 

“Be specific.” 

He lets his eyes slip closed, breathes in through his nose and out again slowly. “I felt… at home. Safe. Familiar. And then happy. Appreciated. Empathetic. Then panicked. Confused. Concerned. Worried. Helpless. Fearful. Desperate. Disappointed.” 

“In who?” Dick interjects softly. 

Tim swallows harshly, doesn't open his eyes. “Myself.” 

“Was it your fault?” 

“Yes.” 

“Was it preventable?” 

“Yes.” 

“Did you know how to prevent it?” 

Tim hesitates. 

“Would you have expected any other person in your position to have known how to prevent it?” Dick presses, until Tim concedes, “No.” 

Dick manoeuvres into a sit adjacent to him, and Tim can finally breathe in the open space. Let the minute tremors run over his shoulders and out of his nervous system. He slumps against the plaster, suddenly sapped of energy. 

“Does this have to do with what happened during your residency?” 

“Doesn't it always,” Tim counters sourly, but he's too exhausted to be spiteful. When Dick lets the silence lull uncomfortably, Tim answers, “Yes. It's… it's that.” 

“You didn't kill him, Tim.” 

“I prescribed him morphine and he was allergic,” Tim contradicts in a blunt murmur. “There's a pretty clear cause and effect there.” 

“It wasn't intentional.” 

“Wasn't it? I felt bad that he was in pain, and my shitty dom tendencies took over and I didn't stop to think-” 

“There wasn't any way anyone else would have known he was allergic. Dom or sub or dual, it wouldn't have mattered. You wanted to help someone who was suffering and you did it in the best way you thought possible.” 

“And he died.” 

“That wasn't your intent. That wasn't anyone's intent.” 

“He was twenty-four.” 

“And so were you. People make mistakes. _You_ make mistakes, I make mistakes. It's a part of life.” 

“Your mistakes don't get people killed,” Tim growls. “ _Your_ mistakes don't get you fired.” 

“You weren't fired because he died, Tim,” Dick contradicts firmly. “We both know that.” 

He's feeling combative, unsurprisingly, so Tim says, “Wasn't I?” 

And God, Dick must be so tired of his shit by now. They all must be. But Tim can't help it, can't compel himself to stop. 

“You were fired because you started cutting down your patients' morphine. You were scared it would happen again. You weren't making decisions based on the well-being of the patient. _That's_ why you were fired.” 

“I quit.” 

Dick doesn't answer. 

“You ever been in a drop this bad?” Tim asks, aware that it sounds like a diversion. Dick rolls with it. 

“Of course.” 

“You ever seen Steph or Wally drop?” 

“You mean a dom drop?” he clarifies, and Tim nods. “Only once, and not with them.” 

“Tell me about it.” 

Dick sighs. “It was back when I was in college. I was dating this older guy. He was a straight dom, through and through. One of our scenes wasn't as stable as it could have been.” 

Tim frowns. “You wouldn't go down?” he asks, because Dick's the easiest service sub he knows. 

Dick chuckles softly. “Went down too easy, actually.” Tim blinks, unaware that that was even a thing. Dick catches his expression. “I guess I was more into it than he was. I went down like that-” The sound of his fingers snapping cuts through the ambience of the closet. “-and he came out of the scene feeling like he hadn't done enough. I felt amazing - I'd just come out of one of the best scenes of my life - and I had to watch him drop because he felt like he wasn't responsible for it, like he didn't get any of the credit.” 

“Do you think sub drops or dom drops are worse?” Tim asks, because he's experienced both in the past two hours and he's undecided. 

“That's not really a fair comparison,” Dick hedges softly. 

“If you had to pick,” Tim presses, his tone hard. 

“Sub drops are worse,” a voice answers from the doorway, and they both glance up in surprise. Jason's leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest like that's all that's holding him there. “Always have been, always will be.” 

“That's a bit biased,” Tim points out once he's recovered. Jason shrugs, unfazed. 

“You asked the question. I'm giving you my honest answer: sub drops are worse.” 

“Dom drops are rarer,” Tim inflects, feeling his heart start to settle at the familiar presence. 

“And sub drops are brutal enough to send you catatonic,” Jason levels, nodding at him. “Case in point.” 

Tim winces. “You saw that, huh?” 

“Yeah.” 

It's said softly, like it's something Jason doesn't feel qualified to admit. Tim's throat tightens at the sound, and Dick must notice the tears that spring to his eyes, because he shields Tim from the embarrassment of clearing them by climbing laboriously to his feet. 

“We'll be just down the hall,” he says to Jason, brushing past him. “Call if you need anything.” 

“Will do,” Jason promises, and fixes his gaze back on Tim as the latter tilts his head back against the plaster. 

“Sorry for putting you in a drop last night.” 

“You didn't put me in a drop,” Jason counters emotionlessly, like it's taking all his concentration to maintain the distance between them. “ _I_ put myself in a drop, and I nearly knocked your teeth out doing it. That wasn't you.” 

“That was more biology than your choice.” 

Jason shrugs stiffly. “Let's call it even then; it wasn't either of us. Neither of us gets to take credit.” 

Tim barks a laugh. “Sure. Guess we probably shouldn't do that again then.” 

Jason frowns. “Why not?” 

Tim manages to muster a disapproving glance. “I'm not scening you again after that performance.” 

“Well that's bullshit.” 

“I dropped y-” Tim starts, and amends at Jason's heated glower. “Fine. You dropped, _magically_ , without it being either of our faults. And because you dropped, and we had sex, and I apparently couldn't handle that, I did the next best thing and stole your limelight. Twice over, technically.” 

“You're a fuckwit,” Jason spits, startling him. 

“What?” 

“You are the most masochistic dom I've ever met. You didn't drop me. I dropped because sometimes that's just what I _do_. And newsflash, I'm probably going to have a drop again, probably multiple times in the next seventy long years I've got on this earth. It's _biology_ , and you don't get to say shit about it. So pull your head out of your ass and stop blaming every single thing that happens to me on yourself.” 

Tim blinks up at him, cradling his shaking hands in his lap. “Are you calling me self-important?” he whispers, the soft hush of his frayed tone killing the levity he'd tried to inject into it. 

Jason softens anyway, the corner of his lip twitching as he unfolds his arms. “The most self-important asshole I know. Did that reality check level you out?” 

“Is that what you had intended? Because yes, it's working.” 

“I can drop more bombshells if that'll help.” 

“Probably not necessary,” Tim admits, and goes to push upright. He winces and collapses back against the closet wall as his knees shake violently and his spine twinges with sharp pain. “Ah, shit. That wasn't smart.” 

“You want a hand?” Jason asks, stepping into the closet, his brow pinched in concern. 

“I'm just going to try sitting here for a bit longer,” Tim purrs, trying to banish the waver from the notes as Jason's scowl deepens. “Don't worry, I'll live. Just need to recuperate a bit. Let me catch my breath.” 

“Didn't know I was that handsome,” Jason quips with a smirk, and Tim stares in shock. 

“Did you just give me a _genuine_ pick up line?” 

“No. You're definitely delirious.” 

“Asshole.” 

 

* * *

 

They stay an extra night, because Tim’s in no state to be making the three hour drive east. His siblings have packed up and headed off by midday, which leaves the two of them and a big empty house, and honestly it could fall either way how they decide to keep warm. 

Tim falls asleep with his legs tangled in Jason’s, and doesn’t wake through the whole eight hours. Jason’s not visited by any memory-nightmares either, and they roll around in bed the next morning because they’re in no particular rush. 

Then they head downstairs and Jason sees whether he can get Tim off before the coffee finishes brewing. Tim’s learning that he likes a challenge, likes to prove himself a bit, and this is pretty low stakes, with his hands fisted in Jason’s hair and Jason on his knees below him as Tim leans back against the countertop. He doesn’t, but it comes close, and then they share slightly-less-than-hot coffee and watch the snow. 

Jason does most of the driving back, because he’s missed open highways and putting his foot down, and Tim’s perfectly happy to let him. He curls up in the passenger seat with his knees slouched against the dashboard and watches the miles roll past the window. 

December flies past in the blink of an eye, and then Christmas and New Year's. They sit on the balcony in the freezing cold, wrapped in blankets, and fire off rockets between passing Tim's birthday whiskey back and forth between them. Tim kisses the numb pink of Jason's nose and ears, and Jason laughs and fumbles around beneath the blanket until they're too hot to need it anymore. 

Cass' birthday comes next, and they armour up for paintball, because they're all damn good shots with a rifle and keen as anything to prove it. Jason and Steph walk away the worst for wear, for once, and they numb the bruises by throwing back shots at Cass' strip joint of choice. 

Dick's next, and his is far tamer. They all squeeze into Barbara’s tiny townhouse in Vienna and bicker over who gets to sit closest to the fire while they cradle servings of Chicken Marengo and get spectacularly drunk on very good red wine. And when lunch is over and they've played at least three rounds of 'Who am I?’ - and Tim and Steph are arguing over whether Nelson Mandela counts as a dead famous politician because he may or may not actually be dead - they switch over to bourbon and vodka. They order pizza because Dick's been dared to chat the delivery guy up and when he comes back from the door with the guy's number, Wally tackles him to the floor and smothers him with kisses. 

Valentine's Day rears up on them before they know it. Tim's not sure if it's a six month or a ten month anniversary, but he's adamant that it deserves celebrating. They book a table at The Dabney a week early, just to avoid the crowds, and cut out earlier than planned because the night is young. 

Jason presses into his side in the elevator back up to their apartment, and Tim hums softly and tunelessly in his ear. There’s only one other person riding up; a heavy set guy who scowls at them and they stoically ignore him. 

He steps out onto their floor with them, and Tim swallows the faint exasperation at the thought that really? And he’s going to do this _tonight_? 

But he just winds his arm tighter around Jason’s waist and fumbles the keys from his pocket. It’s not until they’re in front of the door and the key’s in the lock that either of them notices that he’d been joined by two figures, and then four, and they’re assembled in the hallway like a barricade. Tim frowns but turns the lock and goes to push inside. 

Runs straight up against the hard alloy of a semi-automatic strapped across the chest of Mack truck. He reaches through the space while Tim blinks dumbfoundedly and seizes Jason’s wrist, dragging him into the apartment. A second handler sweeps Tim into the foyer with a firm grip around his bicep, and the ground falls out beneath him. 


	8. Cessate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter tags:**
> 
> i. Verbal threats, verbal abuse, psychological abuse, non-consensual scening, major injury, physical trauma, graphic violence, mentioned past abuse, gun use, safewords, medical procedures 
> 
> Please message me if I have missed any tags, so they can be added. 
> 
> All non-English text is underlined. You can read the English translation by hovering over or clicking the text.  
> Translation notes are at the end of the chapter.

Jason goes down swinging and snarling, clawed fingers sinking into the hands that fist in his collar and yank him towards the floorboards. He's dragged the length of the living room, stumbling in the thug's firm grasp, and thrown to his knees on the carpet. He stills when he sees the man sitting on the sofa, flicking idly through one of Jason's novels, and then he's thrashing, violently. 

The escort waves off the thug, wraps a firm hand around the back of Jason's neck and shoves him face-first into the floor. Jason's hands splay on the rug, a grunt pressing from his lungs as he jerks back against the hold, desperate. Tim can see the muscles in his neck and back working as he tries to push up, tries to get his legs under him. 

Tim yelps when he's manhandled into the living room and deposited a yard off from the escort, one arm twisting his wrist into the nape of his neck and his handler's palm smothering his jawline. Tim folds to his knees, sucking in sharp breaths past the heart lodged in his throat as he watches Jason struggle and prays that they'll let him off lightly if Tim doesn't resist. 

He's got it backwards. The escort crouches down to press the whole of his weight against the back of Jason's neck, and the dark-haired man keens frantically into the carpet, jolting sharply as the escort quips, “Submit.” 

The side-glance that Jason throws him is an emphatic _Go fuck yourself_ , and Tim would almost have been hissing with malignant glee at the sight of it if he weren't so absolutely mortified. The escort's lips twist in a small smile, and he makes sure Jason can see his lips when he says, “Put a blade in Drake's mouth.” 

Electricity sings through Tim's entire body at that command, and he twists against the firm grasp on his wrist, spluttering, “No, wait, don't-” 

The handler jams a thumb in the crook of Tim's jaw and leverages his mouth open even as he tries to bite down. There's a flash of silver, and Tim becomes intimately aware of a bare paring knife hitching into the corner of his lips, snagging on the inside of his cheek. He stills sharply, eyes impossibly wide as his throat works and he tries not to scream. A low, panicked whine still rings itself from his chest, and the knife settles up in behind his molars. Tim wants to retch. 

Jason stills instantly, eyes wide with terror when Tim peels his own back to glance down at him. His back doesn't lose its hard tension, but he stops moving entirely. His chest rises and falls, sharp breaths of air crashing against the carpet as he shudders and gasps. 

The escort chuckles, and shifts his hand slightly, redistributing his weight until Jason's larynx is flush against the floorboards. Jason chokes loudly and twists away on reflex as the man repeats, “Submit, .” 

It takes a few desperate, dragging minutes, and then Jason relaxes. Goes completely lax under the escort's grip, the muscles along his spine relinquishing and flattening out. Tim's heart thrums a frantic bruise against his ribcage. 

The escort pauses for a moment longer before he lifts his hand off Jason's neck, and the smile widens when Jason doesn't rise. He stands and puts the sole of his shoe against the back of Jason's head, holding him down with minimal force. 

Jason makes no dissent other than to grunt softly against the carpet, his eyelids slipping shut. He's broadcasting loudly that he's down, every submissive hallmark etched into his terse form. A piece of Tim chips away at the sight, dissolving swiftly and leaving him feeling unnaturally exposed. 

“Such a good sub,” the escort purrs, and his hazel eyes swing up to fix on Tim's. “Trained him right up for you, didn't we, Drake? Has he been well-behaved?” 

Tim's stomach turns at the way he refers to Jason, as if he had never really left, never stopped belonging to them. As if he's nothing more than a bartering chip, to be passed from one owner to another. He can't say anything with the knife scraping lightly, mockingly against his teeth, so he pleads with his watering eyes. 

The escort chuckles, as if he gets the message loud and clear. He pulls his boot off Jason's neck, and barks, “Sit up.” 

Jason rises slowly, sitting back on his heels and staring at the floor beneath his knees. His eyes are unfocused, and Tim can see a dazed mask settle over his features, knows he's sinking deep and staying there, far beyond reach of what's happening in the apartment. Tim knows a dissociative state when he sees one, feels it to his core.  

The escort seems to notice this too, because his lip curls back and he purrs, “You stay up here, . I want you to see all of this.” 

Tim watches Jason's consciousness rise abhorrently to the surface and settle behind his blue eyes, watches the barest hint of pain notch in his brow. He can see it kicking back against the current, trying to dive back down. Watches Jason shudder as his body tries to fight the control the escort's words have on him. 

The man sighs, as if Jason's being splenetic, and steps back to wave the sub closer to the coffee table. Jason shuffles forwards on stiff knees, until he's poised above it. “If you're going to fight me on this, , I'll give you a reason to stay up here,” the escort promises, and Tim watches Jason's whole body recoil at the idea. “Brace your wrist in your other hand.” 

Jason wraps the fingers of his right hand around his left wrist, awash with the necessity of following the instruction. Tim can see his consciousness thrashing vivaciously, sees him swiftly dive towards a drop. The escort doesn't seem the slightest bit perturbed. 

The escort flicks a wrist at Tim, and he's leveraged over until his head is resting on the long side of the coffee table, adjacent to Jason where he kneels, motionless. Tim swallows hard and tries to think past the knife hitched into his lips. The escort cocks his head, surveying Jason with mild amusement. 

“Tense your arm,” he instructs, and Jason does. “Now lift it, and break it on that table for me.” 

Jason doesn't even pause. He's down enough consciously that his body has switched over to auto-pilot, so he just leverages his left arm up, angles it slightly, and throws it down with all his weight behind it. 

The sound of his bones snapping is enough to make Tim jolt, to taste a well of blood against the inside of his cheek when the knife slips unexpectedly at the motion. The _reverberation_ of Jason breaking his own arm in two against the coffee table thrums through Tim's cheek and straight down to his stomach. 

Tim folds over and down, off the coffee table, and upheaves. The knife hesitates the briefest moment before retracting, and Tim cowers in the hold and braces his free arm against the floorboards, retching until the last of the bile is expunged. He realises he's crying when he surfaces for air, gasping in hard and sharp breaths as he tries to wring the echo from his ears. 

He stays that way for as long as they let him, and then his sobs hitch in an acute protest as he's shoved back into a sit and held there with the warning knife angled against his cheekbone. Tim realises he's shivering, and peels his gaze up to look at Jason. 

He's pale as a ghost, the colour gone from his face as he awkwardly but studiously cradles his splintered arm. A wash of pain rolls over his entire form, and Tim can see his consciousness pressed hard against the lenses of his eyes, trapped there. He glances at Tim with an apologetic expression, as if he's responsible for making Tim violently ill, and Tim mewls softly. 

“With us again, ?” the escort chirps with a thrum of pleasure, and Jason nods reticently. “That's good to hear. We've got a lot of work to get done, and I'd hate for you to miss it.” 

“Yessir,” he slurs, swaying very slightly. 

“Apologise to Drake,” the escort chides, and Jason fixes him with a blank stare as he obeys. The raw quality to his voice turns Tim's stomach again, so he takes a moment to hold his breath and keep it down, focusing on the sensation. 

When he opens his eyes, the escort is watching him with interest. 

“You're a dual, aren't you, Drake?” he asks conversationally, and Tim drags in a shuddering breath through his nose. 

He doesn't see the point in lying, so he says, “Yes.” 

“Ever seen a sympathy drop?” the escort enquires, and Tim nods, barely. “Ever _been_ in a sympathy drop?” 

Tim shakes his head. “No.” 

“I'll bet you his other arm,” the escort proposes, and gestures to Jason's unbroken limb, “that I can get you in a sympathy drop.” 

Tim's lungs seize up, his throat closing off. He sways blindly, forcing himself back into the moment, if only for Jason's sake. “Please,” is all he can manage. 

“Not keen on the idea? We'll see if we can change your mind. Give it time.” 

The escort slumps down onto the sofa amidst the plush cushions, and the rest of their entourage seems to take that as an unspoken cue to relax, because they fall into parade rest. The man wraps his palms over his knees and smirks at Jason, motionless before him, still gently clutching his broken arm. 

“How've you been, ?” he asks, purring the question as he tucks a strand of Jason's loose, sweat-streaked hair behind his ear. It's so patronisingly endearing that Tim feels a swell of rage bubble in him at the motion. “Been keeping out of trouble? Looks like you've been playing house with agent Drake here. Is that right?” 

“Yessir.” 

The escort tuts. “Thought you could get away with bunking with an FBI agent, clever. No luck, though; we still found you, didn't we?” 

“Yessir.” 

“Just like we said we would,” the escort purrs, and hums to himself. “Have you been down since your time with us?” 

It's such an intimate question that Tim jerks on instinct, his body jolting reflexively. The escort's gaze flashes over to him, warning, and the paring knife slides down to press into the corner of his closed mouth. 

“Yes,” Jason answers tonelessly. 

“With Drake here?” 

“Yes.” 

“How many times?” 

“Six.” 

The escort whistles in appreciation, his smiling eyes flickering to Tim and back again. “Nice going, agent. Really moved in on the merchandise while we had our hands full. Very smart. Tell me, , how did it feel?” 

Jason sighs brokenly, and it's a forlorn sound. It tugs at the strings behind Tim's navel, yanking his heart back up into his throat. “Safe.” 

The escorts eyes are glittering when they rise to meet Tim’s. “That's sweet, agent; knew you had it in you. Answer me this, did you give him a safeword?” 

“Go fuck yourself,” Tim croaks hoarsely, and the escort chuckles. 

“Did he give you a safeword, ?” 

“Yessir.” 

“That's very good,” the escort purrs, and Jason sinks with the vocalised approval. Then he turns back to Tim. “Going to tell me what it is?” 

“No,” Tim says firmly, even shakes his head. It's a line he can't bring himself to cross. It was a word spoken to him in confidence, when Jason was at his absolute barest, spread open and vulnerable for Tim. _Trusting_ him. 

The escort tilts his head towards the kneeling sub. “Tell me the safeword.” 

“Don't,” Tim orders, and watches Jason grapple with the conflicting commands before whispering, “Little Wing.” 

Tim feels his face scrunch with rage. “Fuck you,” he spits, ignoring the blade that begins to dig deeper into his moving lips. “Don't you fucking dare.” 

The escort keeps his enthralled gaze fixed on Tim, and calls over his shoulder. “Get me something I can work with.” 

Mack truck steps immediately into Jason's room, and there's the harsh sounds of him rifling through Jason's belongings before something wooden chimes mutedly against a piece of furniture. He emerges with the wooden bat in hand, and Tim tries to struggle up to his feet at the sight of it. 

His handler retracts the knife, twists Tim's arms into the small of his back and cinches them there with a single hand around his wrists. It makes the bones there grind against one another, sharp flashes of pain spiking up his stiff arms. Tim doesn't try to shake him off, let's himself sag in the hold, and resigns himself to glaring at the escort as his handler leans down next to his ear. “Move again,” he warns, and digs the very tip of the knife into Tim's deltoid, “and I'll sheath it right here, understand me?” 

Tim stills with gritted teeth as he watches the thug pass the bat into the escort's hand, the symbol of protection bastardised the second it touches his palms. The man taps it into his left hand, testing the weight as he fixes Jason with a slow smile. Then he rises to his feet, and Tim's spitting before he's even consciously decided to. 

“You lay a single fucking hand on him, and I swear to God, I'll-” 

His threat floors two octaves and curls off in a sharp scream when Tim's handler thrusts the blade directly into the dip where his bicep meets his shoulder muscle, and lodges there. He instinctively curls around the pain, slipping the last quarter-inch onto the knife as he gasps and whimpers. Tim's arm is spasming, roiling with white-hot agony as he sucks in air through his teeth and tries to shove the sensation from the forefront of his mind. It takes him a few pain-filled minutes to beat back the urge to go down, the incentive a wave of heat that washes over him and leaves him trembling, until Tim is choking back breaths. 

The escort crouches down in front of him, holding his burning gaze with a solemn expression. “Keep in mind, Drake, I can do much worse than this. I can make _him_ do worse than this, to _himself_. I could have him slice his eyelids off, or swallow his tongue, or do all manner of things, if I wanted to. Maybe I will. I'm still deciding. So shut your mouth, before I make him do something you'll _really_ regret. ?” 

He rises without waiting for Tim to answer, turning the bat over in his loose grip as he circles Jason. The escort nudges Jason's broken bones gently with the smoothed end, ordering, “Hands up behind your head, . Both of them. Show me how _good_ you can be.” 

So Jason does as he's told, tightens his grip around his left wrist and nearly passes out when he tries to lift his arm, jostles and bends the fractured bones. But he manages to do it nonetheless, because he's been told to, and right now that's the only sane thing that matters in Jason's splintered world. 

Tim watches him fist his hands behind the crown of his head, sucking his breath in and holding it until his ribcage is swollen. Watches the escort trace the tip of the bat languidly over each of his bones, humming to himself. 

“Good pet,” he purrs, and Jason shivers, sinking just that inch deeper into subspace. “If you behave, I can make this short for you. You want to behave, don't you?” 

Jason looks pale enough to pass out. “Yessir,” he murmurs nonetheless, forcing his eyes to fix on the wall ahead. 

“So here's what's going to happen,” the escort says, and slides down to sit on his haunches in front of Jason. The bat rests across his thighs. “I'm going to break each and every one of your ribs, starting from this one here.” He presses a fingernail into Jason lowest floating rib, smirks when Jason swallows harshly. “And everytime you feel unsafe or in pain, I want you to use your safeword. Then I'll break another one. Understand?” 

Jason's swimming gaze rises to fix on the escort's, wavering there as he tries to find words. “Yes, sir.” 

The escort chuckles to himself, rises back up to his full height and hefts the bat, adjusting his grip as it hovers over his shoulder. Jason's gaze follows him up. “Let's test that resolve then, shall we?” he asks, and swings the bat across Jason's jaw. 

Jason goes down like a sack of shit, blood spraying across the pale rug. Tim's screaming and thrashing in the handler's hold, the knife in his arm forgotten. He can't hear anything, can't even discern if Jason is breathing past his own screeches and the pulse in his ears and the escort's bellowing laughter as he paces around Jason's prone body. 

The handler evidently grows weary of Tim's convulsing, because he takes one step around him, and drives a closed fist into his larynx. When Tim folds over, choking for air, he wraps a hand around the crown of his head and leverages him down to the floor. 

Tim spends the next few minutes relearning how to breathe, and by the time he's finished sputtering and choking into the rug, Jason's beginning to stir. Tim tries to reach for him, ignoring the searing rip of pain through his deltoid, and only succeeds in having his wrist crushed beneath the handler's boot. 

“Jason,” Tim gasps as his blue eyes swim back into focus. Jason blinks absently at him, totally dazed, and Tim swallows down a whimper. “Jason?” 

The lower half of his face is smeared in hot, wet blood. It stains the front and the sleeves of his shirt, and paints a macabre scene across the pale fibres of the rug. His teeth all seem to still be in his gums though, which is nothing short of a miracle. His socket and cheekbone don't seem to have fared as well. 

Tim watches consciousness seep back into his shallow eyes, watches them immediately fill with a strike of pain that breaches into a soft groan. Watches him shift and try to turn the injured half of his face off of the rug. Then watches resignation settle behind his lenses as he says, softly, “Little Wing.” 

Tim wants to retch. Wants to scream and bellow and heave until he can't fucking breathe anymore, because there's no _fucking way_ he's so far down, so complacent, that his first coherent thought upon waking is to obey an order. 

The escort sighs lovingly as Jason rolls and tries to pick himself back up. Fixates his gaze on those swimming blue eyes and taps the bat twice against his own shoulder. Jason looks two seconds from passing out. 

Tim realises he's babbling when Jason frowns at him, acknowledges that he's spewing a steady stream of, “Don't, don't, please, just don't, please don't-” 

“Drake, I will kick your teeth in,” the escort promises, cutting through Tim's hysteria with a blunt tone. “.” 

“,” Jason slurs in a low rumble, trying to get his arms under him. He yelps when he puts pressure on his broken arm, lets it peter off into a groan, but he's persistent. “.” 

“,” the man purrs down at him, and Jason sobs, manages to get himself up onto one elbow. 

“Fuck you,” he says hollowly, shaking off a bout of dizziness. 

The escort smiles brighter and broader than Tim has ever seen someone smile. He lowers the bat a fraction and surveys Jason with amused reverence. 

“Say that again,” he orders curiously. 

Jason's throat works as he focuses on sliding back into a kneel. “Fuck you,” he repeats without inflection, the words a repetition. 

The escort laughs, the sound wringing with wholehearted mirth. Then he flicks a wrist at the handler. “Lift Drake's arm up.” 

The handler's boot disappears to be replaced with unyielding fingers. He winds a hand around the bones of Tim's numb wrist and pulls him half-upright by his arm. The knife cants as his deltoid rolls, and Tim screams, reaching blindly for his levitated elbow to relieve the weight. 

The escort extends an arm, his gaze fixed on Jason's horrified expression as he taps the butt of the bat against the paring knife's protruding handle. Tim hisses and hangs. “Want me to knock it out of his arm like this, ?” he preens, and Jason swallows down nausea. He shakes his head slowly, and the escort's grin grows. “I reckon I can put him down if I do.” 

Jason hiccups a dry sob, his eyes begging through the haze of being down. “Please, zoteri.” 

“I reckon I can get _you_ down in a sympathy drop easy if I can put him down,” the escort muses aloud, and Tim bares teeth, his arm awash with liquid fire. “But I did bet your other arm on him, and I'm keen to see if its possible to drag a dual down that far.” 

“ _Please_.” 

“You're going to stay down, aren't you?” the escort threatens. 

Jason's throat works, hitching as if he's fighting back tears. “Yes,” he admits finally. 

Tim knows enough, medically, about dynamics to know that it's not that easy. Even willingly, it takes a solid amount of stimulant - emotional, psychological, physical or chemical - to take a sub down into a scene and then to keep them there. And the golden conditions under which a sub can keep themselves down with external stimuli precludes the sort of emotions that are churning through Jason's bloodstream right now. Chemically, he's got too much adrenaline and endorphins to keep himself down for much longer. 

Jason seems to be coming around to the same realisation, because his brow pinches and the escort's teeth show in his discerning smile. “,” he murmurs softly, and Jason whines. 

But he lowers the wooden bat away from Tim's arm, and Tim heaves a few tight breaths where he hangs, glaring. Words don't come, and he just stares at the escort, shaking with hatred and rage and sick _pity_ , unable to do anything. 

“Let's see,” the escort muses, and his gaze sweeps Jason. He looks like a fucking wreck, his arm bent at a slightly obtuse angle, the front of him stained in sweat and blood. His hair is plastered to his forehead, and his misshapen cheekbone is starting to swell in the beginning of a bruise. “You do look so pretty with all that blood on you, . And you took that swing _so_ well; clipped you right on your cheekbone. You've been so well-behaved for me, and for Drake. And you want to keep being good, don't you?” 

Jason looks defensive, but Tim can tell he's forcing himself under again, pushing himself to slip. “Yes,” he whispers, _begs_. 

“You want to be good. You want me to crack your ribs one by one, because that's how you know you've done well, isn't it?” 

Jason swallows harshly, looking absolutely floored, and Tim can't stop the whine that rings up through his throat at the sight. “Yes.” 

“Use your manners, .” 

“Yes, please,” Jason amends, and blinks through watering eyes. 

The bat makes a slow arc until it's up under Jason's chin, and the escort taps him there once, lightly. Jason grunts and leverages his head back, but doesn't break gaze. “One more time for me. Be specific.” 

“Please hit me,” Jason murmurs, unwavering as the escort smirks and hoists the bat up over his shoulder. “As many times as I deserve. As many times as I need to know I've been good.” 

“Very good, ,” the escort purrs, and then one of the thugs in the hallway screams. 

Jason stiffens, as if snapped from a daydream, and the slightest frown appears in the escort's brow before the front door comes off its hinges and the thug posted there goes down clutching his knee and screaming. 

Several things happen in the next few seconds, and Tim's shocked mind tries to compartmentalise. 

Three figures in all-black materialise in the doorway, toting semi-automatics and in full tactical gear. The walls of Tim's apartment splatter crimson as the row of Albanians lined against them disintegrate partially. Tim's own handler is turning, blinking dumbfoundedly over at the chaos as he reaches for the gun holstered against his ribs, dropping Tim's wrist in response. 

As he falls, Tim sees the realisation register in the escort's gaze. Sees Jason's eyes slip from the advancing, bellowing figures back up to the escort's as he hefts the bat and zeroes in. Not on Jason's ribs, which would cause him the most pain and the most collateral damage; but on his skull, on damage control, on the fatal strike which will take him down permanently. Clean up the last loose end. Tim sees the recognition spark and wane in Jason's eyes as he assesses his options in the brief two-second window, tries to pull himself out of the sluggish daze that is being in a downscene, and comes up tragically short. 

Then the air whistles, the bat swings, and the wood cracks against Jason's skull. 

Tim's already moving by the time Jason hits the floorboards, by the time the escort makes a second pass and blood splatters _everywhere_. The escort's already leveraging the bloodied bat back, all of his weight behind it when Tim wraps both arms around his ribs and _heaves_. 

Something rips across Tim other arm - the one without the embedded knife, the one that's pressed up against the escort's midsection - as they both tumble back onto the sofa. The epicentre goes numb immediately, and Tim’s scrambling up, one fist hitched back to drive into the escort's face when he realises he's dead. Sees the glassy outlook and the slack features and the puncture hole in the top of his neck. 

Tim chokes and pushes off the body, catches in its limbs as he tumbles to the floor. His arm is starting to burn now, but then Tim remembers Jason, and everything else blurs away as he turns. 

There's blood _everywhere_. It's on the floor and the table and the rug, and lying amidst a spray of it is Jason, sprawled facedown on the timber, unmoving. 

Tim rolls him onto his side as swiftly and gingerly as possible, and his hands are clawed on Jason's shoulder as six years of medical training kick in. His eyes immediately leap to Jason's chest, noting the slow rise and fall of his sternum as Tim begins to categorise. 

There's a pulse in his throat, and whilst its laboured, its steady. He doesn't bother checking for signs of consciousness. There's too much blood in his eyes for Jason to see anyway, and his face is too much of a wreck for Tim to work out where he'd even start. He can tell he's out cold anyway, just based on the way his neck lolls and his features (or, what Tim can make of them) are slack. 

He tilts Jason's head back, discarding the potential that he may have a spinal injury as second priority to checking that his airways aren't obstructed and he can actually breathe. There's so, _so_ much blood around his mouth, but his throat looks thankfully clear, so Tim winds fingers down to his wrist to check there's no obstructions to blood flow. 

That's when he realises his hands are shaking, badly, and his breath is rattling past his lips in sharp little whines that he can't smother. Tim swallows hard, notes the artery's steady push back against his probing fingers, and then, satisfied that Jason's immediately, miraculously stable, goes into damage control. 

There's just _so much fucking blood_ , and the rational part of Tim's frantic mind sneers that that's what head wounds _do,_ they _bleed_ , and Tim shoves the thought from his mind and tries to find the source. He's brushing back the hair that's plastered to Jason's temple when the first respondents arrive on the scene, sliding to their knees with a grace that Tim desperately wishes he had right now. 

“I've got a pulse,” Tim rattles off quickly as the nearest paramedic's hands leap up to cradle Jason's head. “He's breathing, and his airways are unobstructed.” 

The first paramedic confirms all this while the second gets Tim's fractured attention and asks evenly, “Was he unconscious when he went down?” 

“H-he was hit,” Tim stammers, casts around with growing panic for the baseball bat. “There's a bat. He got hit twice- three times in the head; two to the temple, one to the jaw. I don't know when he was unconscious, I didn't see- I don't know-” 

The paramedic squeezes Tim's wrist and smiles quickly. “That's good, that's very helpful. Can you shuffle back a bit for me?” 

Tim realises he's curled over Jason's prone form, shielding him on some embedded instinct that's got him clinging to Jason's shoulder like a lifeline. He swallows hard, nods shakily and puts genuine effort into unfolding off him. 

The paramedic dives in as soon as Tim is clear, briefly checking his broken arm before he starts conversing with his partner. Tim's left staring at them dumbfoundedly, desperately wanting to demand if he's going to be okay, but he knows they have as much information as he does. 

Someone puts an arm around his shoulders, murmurs something in his ear, and it's not until they go to pull him up and stop that Tim manages to discern, “Are you injured?” 

He snaps out of his blank stare, following their gaze to the knife still buried in his arm, and frowns. “Yeah, I…” 

“Can I get a medic?” the person calls over their shoulder, and Tim notes the tactical black of a SWAT officer. Another figure materialises in front of Tim in hyperreflective scrubs, smiling as she slides down to his height. 

Her gloves gently turn his arm over so she can view the wound, and she's saying something, but Tim's having trouble processing. Everything's muted and hazy, and his brain just isn't chewing through all the sensory data. 

“You've been stabbed,” she says steadily, her tone firm but soothing, unfazed. The paramedic checks him over, noticing the burning in his other arm. “You have a bullet wound, looks to just be a graze though. I'm going to give you an injection, and then we're going to put a donut around that knife, okay? Then we'll wrap it up and move you to the hospital and they'll get you right as rain.” 

Tim nods numbly, lets her roll back his sleeve to better expose his shoulder, and jam a needle into the muscle. He can't tell which narcotic it is, forgets to check before she drops it into the kidney bean pan she has resting next to her thigh, and whilst the numbness is _good_ , it doesn't stop him from yelling when they ease the donut-shaped bandage over the knife. 

The SWAT officer steps in at some point, wraps their gloved hand around the side of Tim's exposed neck and cinches a firm hand around his opposite wrist, holds him still. They're saying something, and Tim's concentration is torn between the knife jostling in his blood-drained muscle and the conversation. He hisses sharply into the seam of their collar, biting through another scream as the paramedic sets the donut flush against his bicep and immediately begins wrapping the rest of the wound. 

“You've lost some blood there,” she frets, and tightens the bandage, pinning it in place. “We're just gonna cinch this off until we can get you in the ambulance, and then we'll organise a transfusion for you on the ride to the hospital.” 

“Inova,” Tim slurs, some distant part of his brain coming online. “Get us to Inova.” 

“We can do that, sweetie,” the woman assures him, busies herself with cleaning up her kidney bean while her partner leverages a gurney into the apartment. The officer peels away now that Tim's slumped forwards and breathing evenly. 

“Him too,” Tim insists firmly, and watches them slide Jason's limp body back onto a stretcher. 

“No problem,” the paramedic assures, and meets his gaze, helping him upright. “One step at a time.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translation notes:**
> 
> Dashur (Albanian) = Beloved 
> 
> Kuptoni? (Albanian) = Understand? 
> 
> Mbylleni gojën tuaj të ndyrë (Albanian) = Shut your fucking mouth 
> 
> Më zgjidh mua, më godit (Albanian) = Pick me, hit me 
> 
> Askush nuk i pëlqen një martir (Albanian) = Nobody likes a martyr 
> 
> Qen i mirë (Albanian) = Good dog


	9. Exonerate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter tags:**
> 
> i. Medical procedures, major injury, physical trauma, character POV panic attack  
> ii. Medical procedures, physical trauma, mentions of sex  
> iii. Explicit sexual content (consensual), consensual scening, kissing, handjobs, fellatio, rimming, anal sex, M/M 
> 
> Please message me if I have missed any tags, so they can be added. 
> 
> All non-English text is underlined. You can read the English translation by hovering over or clicking the text.  
> Translation notes are at the end of the chapter.

It takes Jason three months to recover. 

A week and a half of induced coma while they sew up his face and fuse blood into him like he's a sinking ship. Another week of regulated sedation in a dimmed room while they counter the photosensitivity and wheel him away every other hour for more scans. 

It's only after they do a PET scan on the third day of Jason being conscious that they confirm their suspicions. In doing away with the rigorous medical terminology he's heard passed over and around him by the various staff assigned to his care, Tim's aware of one simple fact: Jason has brain damage. 

It's moderate, but that doesn't stop Tim curling into a ball so tight upon finding out that Barbara's the only one able to talk him out of it. And she only manages that by putting him down so deep he forgets he's wailing horrifically on the floor of Jason's hospital room. The drop follows him almost the instant she brings him back up, and by then she's managed to bundle him out of the hospital altogether. 

Barbara ultimately loses the argument that follows, and Tim's back in the hard vinyl chair in Jason's private room by sundown the next day. He does, however, lose the argument that ensures that one of his siblings is always present to monitor him. 

Dick's the one who's watching him when the neurologist sits Tim down and explains that Jason has moderate trauma to his temporal lobe and slight damage in his inferior frontal gyrus. All Tim can hear is his mind repeating on a fucking loop _he's going to be deaf, he's going to be deaf, he's going to be deaf and it's your fault_ while he squeezes Dick's hand hard enough to strain a tendon. 

It's slightly worse, it turns out, and Tim realises this while splashing water on his face in the aftermath of the meeting with the neurologist. Spending a fourth of his life dedicated to studying the intricacies of the human body means that he doesn't get away with pleading ignorance. His shithead brain lays out the facts like a textbook, and Tim's helpless to refute them. Jason's going to have impaired long-term memory function, poor spatial negotiation, and maybe some language processing issues. Dick, who had stepped out to get them some semi-decent sandwiches, comes back to find Tim staring blankly at the mirror and mumbling, “Is he even going to remember me?” 

His siblings, because they all work in high-stress environments and because they genuinely care about him despite all protests to the contrary, go into damage control. 

They start restricting his attendance on Jason. Make sure he's eaten and drunk and had more than five hours sleep before he's allowed back through the lobby doors. Four weeks into the schedule, Cass even puts him down to make sure he's managing his dynamic, and Tim goes easy. 

Steph's the first to really break through to him. She looks absolutely emotionally wrecked when they step out together to get a coffee and some breathing space while Jason's submitted to yet another PET scan. They stare across the cafeteria table at each other with grim expressions and try to imagine what could have gone differently. 

“How're your arms?” Steph asks finally, breaking the dull silence. 

Tim starts slightly, and glances down at each of his biceps in turn. He'd gotten out of the sling a few days out of recovery, hadn't worn it for weeks, and without the obstruction, he can see the puckered white scar tissue peeking out beneath his sleeve. The mark on his other arm, the bullet-graze arm, is almost unnoticeable. “Pretty much healed now.” 

“How's Barbara?” 

“How's Dick?” Tim bites back, and Steph tongues the inside of her cheek. 

“Touché,” she mutters, and sighs. “He’s been watching me, obviously. But he’s pissed. Frustrated is more accurate, I guess. He wants what's best for me, so does Wally. They both hate to see me like this. I think he feels a little helpless, to be honest.” 

“Ditto,” Tim mutters into his latte. 

Steph slumps back in her chair. “We've got to get our shit in order.” 

“I don't have to do shit. I don't care how much they meddle.” 

“Not for them,” Steph says softly, and Tim glances up at her. “For him.” 

That slides into the bottom of his lungs like a knife, and sears its way up his chest rapidly, like a fire churning across a brittle field. Tim swallows a few times and finally whispers, “It's not fair.” 

“Of course it’s not fair,” Steph hisses back, but there's no anger there. Just hollow, unplaced frustration. “Nothing about this is fair. Him going to Serbia wasn't fair. Him being picked apart by a mob of Albanian traffickers wasn't fair. Him getting him skull smashed in-” 

“Please stop,” Tim says, because he can’t breathe. Steph lapses immediately, straightening in her chair while Tim tries to get his lungs to cooperate. 

“You okay?” Steph asks softly, and Tim does a quick assessment. 

“No,” he chokes with surprisingly levity, and shoots to his feet. Steph scoops up their paper coffee cups and follows him as he beelines out of the cafeteria. 

Pins and needles are shooting up his fingertips, and he can feel dizziness setting in. Tim manages to find a mostly empty hallway with a seated alcove, and he slumps into it and gasps in air. 

“Hold your breath,” Steph reminds him clearly and gently, and Tim lets her count him through until the lightheadedness starts to dissipate. “Tense the muscles in your hands and wrists. Focus on it.” 

Tim does, holds them tight and taut for ten seconds, and then lets the tension ease away when he relaxes. He makes his way through his arms up to his shoulders, and then down his torso, tensing each muscle group in segments and then uncoiling, until the panic starts to wear off. 

He slumps back against the plum-coloured plaster behind them and revels in the cool air against his skin. “This is ridiculous. I’m having a panic attack nearly every week. How am I supposed to take care of him when I can’t even take care of myself?” 

“Focus on taking care of yourself, for a start,” Steph offers evenly. “Set all Jason’s shit aside for a moment and really focus on yourself. You’re right - you’re not going to be in any state to take care of him while you’re too busy falling apart every time you look at him. So if this is something you want, dedicate yourself to getting better, for him.” 

“Easier said than done,” Tim mumbles. 

“If you’re going to dredge up every excuse in the book, then I’m not going to fight you on this, Tim,” Steph says firmly. “If you think this is a lost cause, then it is. But you’re going to be letting Jason _and_ yourself down if you write this off as impossible.” 

“I’m not writing it off,” Tim mutters, not meeting her gaze. 

“Then what are you going to do about it? How are you going to get your shit in order?” 

Tim scrubs a hand down his face. “I haven’t had my shit in order in twenty-eight years.” 

“Well that’s bullshit,” Steph mutters. “You’ve managed to run a successful consultancy firm since you were twenty-four. And before that you were on track to be one of the best orthopedists in the state.” 

Tim frowns, but says nothing. 

“And for the last year, you’ve helped my brother get his life back together,” she adds in a reverent tone. Then she laughs. “Which, trust me, is no small feat. And I have no doubt he dug his heels in every step of the way.” 

“Not every step,” Tim replies softly, a smile tugging at his lips. 

“You managed to get him from a one to a six in the two months before you called me in,” Steph points out, glancing down at him with a wry smile. “And what you’ve done in the eight months since? He’s better than before he left for Pennsylvania.” 

“You helped.” 

Steph nods. “And I’ll be here to help now, too. But trust me when I say, I think you’ve got this. It’s going to be slow, and hard. But if there was anyone I could recommend who I thought could handle it, it’d be you.” 

“Thanks,” Tim croaks. Steph hands him his barely-touched coffee, and Tim sips it gratefully while she folds herself into the alcove beside him. After a measurable silence, he says, “Tell me something about him.” 

Steph glances at him, surprised. “Like what?” 

Tim shrugs with one shoulder, curled tight against the wall. “Something from when you were young. Tell me what he was like before he joined the NYPD, before he left for Pennsylvania.” 

Steph smirks. “He was a good older brother. And I’m not just saying that because we were close. Are close. He didn’t get along well with our dad, but he took good care of Mom. He and I both. We were really close before he went to Pennsylvania.” Steph’s expression goes dark for a moment. “And his relationship with Dad didn’t help the situation.” 

Tim wrings his hands in his lap, twisting his fingers painfully, letting it centre him. It’s an absent, habitual gesture. “He hasn’t talked about your father with me. But I can tell they’ve got… history.” 

Steph nods slowly, lost in thought. “History is a word. He’s always wanted to impress Dad. Probably because he thinks he needs to earn it, like he owes him something. And playing encore to the Commissioner isn’t easy.” At Tim curious, crooked brow, she explains, “Dad made his way up through the ranks of the NYPD stupidly fast. You don’t get that far into office before forty without being ruthless. Ambitious is practically Dad’s middle name, and Jason just… isn’t.” 

Tim hums fondly, crossing his legs under him as he leans back against the puce plaster. “But he tries to be, for your father.” 

“Yeah, for Dad. That’s why he joined the force, I think. That’s why he was trying for that FBI transfer. That’s why he got it, probably. Because he’s too stubborn to admit when he doesn’t even want something, when he's doing something to please someone else. He’s been trying to impress Dad for the last twenty years, and he’s just... not paying attention. He’s never satisfied when either of us do anything noteworthy. It’s hard enough when you’ve got to one-up the sibling that came before you, but impressing the almighty State Commissioner is a whole new playing field. And he’s too busy serving the State of New York to dedicate every waking moment of his day to his needy kids. So, I get why Jason’s always felt the need to be noticed by him.” 

“I can’t imagine what that was like,” Tim points out softly, and Steph glances at him. 

“You’re on the tail end of your brood, so you'd get the sibling rivalry thing. You’re adopted too, aren’t you?” 

“Yeah, but Dad and Alfred never cared what we’d turn out like. Or they cared about us too much. Either way, I knew they’d be proud of me if I turned out a doctor or a fed or whatever I ended up being. Whoever I chose to become. Doesn’t matter, they would’ve been proud, and they would have told me as much. Makes all the difference, knowing that.” 

“It does,” she agrees, and sets her paper cup down. “You want to know what I think?” 

“What?” 

“I think Jason doesn’t care what Dad thinks anymore. Not since he met you.” 

“You think so?” 

“He hasn’t mentioned him once since I got back. Hasn’t even mentioned wanting to do anything professionally, to spite him. And he told me that you’d offered him that clerk role working with you, and Tim,” Steph says, and fixes him with an earnest, fond stare, “he’s really, _really_ excited about that. I think it’s the first time he’s been excited about something _for_ himself. I don’t think he’s ever had a job that wasn’t for Dad’s sake. So this is- was really big for him.” 

“Was?” Tim says pointedly. 

Steph rolls her eyes. “I mean, I guess he can still do some of the filing, but he’s not going to be able to go into the field again. Not in his state. Maybe not ever. So the consultancy is only going to go so far, right?” 

“He’s still allowed to consult with me, Steph,” Tim says with a tinge of protectiveness. “If he wants to. And I’m pretty sure his end goal isn’t field work anyway. Or at least, not only field work. If it was, he wouldn’t be trying to take up his studies again.” 

“He’s studying?” Steph interjects with a frown, and Tim glances at her. 

“Yeah. Well, no, technically. Not yet. But he’ll be starting up again in-” Tim pauses, because Steph’s staring at him blankly, and suddenly it all rushes up on him in a tingling wave of shock. “Holy hell he hasn’t told you.” 

“Hasn’t told me what?” she prods, glaring as Tim grins _hugely_. For the first time in what feels like literal weeks. 

“Holy shit,” Tim curses with distinct glee, and Steph looks ready to smack him. 

“What?” 

“Oh no,” Tim croons. “I finally know something about him before you do. This is- God, this is a great feeling. Is this how you feel all the time?” 

“Tim, I swear to God, if you don’t tell me, I will-” 

So Tim seizes her wrists and holds her gaze, glowing with pride. “He got accepted into Penn Law.” 

Steph nearly jolts out of the alcove. “Holy shit.” 

“He found out the day after Cass’s birthday. I can’t believe he’s kept it under wraps for this long. He starts in September. He must have been planning on breaking the news to you sometime. Don’t tell him I told you.” 

“Are you kidding me?” Steph hisses with absolute joy. “That’s amazing. He’s doing his juris doctor?” 

“Yeah.” 

“That’s _amazing_. Oh my God, I’m so proud of him!” 

“ _Don’t_ tell him I told you.” 

“Oh, I’m going to tell him as soon as he gets back from his scan. You are a goddamn snitch, Timothy Drake.” 

Tim glares, but it’s half-hearted. “Just make sure you act surprised.” 

“Wouldn’t dream of anything less.” 

 

* * *

 

It gets better. 

Jason moves into outpatient care after eight weeks. His arm cast comes off, and his skull fractures are showing signs of melding, which means he's on track for a speedy recovery osteologically. The swelling and bruising around his eye socket and down his jawline have faded too, which makes him look almost good as new. 

He has got a ruptured eardrum, which everyone had expected, and that, coupled with the trauma to his temporal lobe, means that he's partially deaf on his left side. His inner ear impairment also means that he comes unbalanced easily, and he's prone to vertigo. His frontal lobe is also injured, but not as severely as they'd suspected, so most of his other functions are intact. 

The seizures are the worst part. They come and go with growing infrequency, and they wrap Jason up in intermittent grand mal episodes for a few minutes at a time. If Tim was rusty on his first aid before, he's not any longer. They start to get a handle on it by the tenth week; Jason's gotten pretty good at watching for the symptoms, at warning Tim before he starts to go into an ictal state. The neurology clinic has said that they might be able to offer Jason a service dog before he's discharged, but his seizures are down to less than one-a-fortnight now, so it might not even be necessary by the time he heads home.  

The compromised memory loss is infrequent and temporary at worst. When it does set in, it usually does so of a morning. Tim'd walked into Jason's room only twice and been greeted with a swift “Who the fuck are you?” before they worked out what was happening. It hasn't happened for three weeks now, and the handful of times it had happened, it'd alleviated within the next hour. His short term memory is mostly intact, but his long term memory has some holes. Tim hasn't been able to discern if he remembers most of that night; Jason doesn't talk about it, but Tim suspects it's more poignant that some of his older memories. 

Jason has absolutely no trouble reading, so he devours books faster than Tim can supply them, and he's started a small library in his room that he donates to the hospital by the time he's discharged in early August. 

They're sitting on a bench outside the front doors, waiting for Steph to bring the car around, when Tim remembers with a start. 

“It's your birthday in three days,” he says loudly, and Jason pauses, before a slow smile creeps onto his face. 

“You're not wrong.” 

“Did you have something in mind that you wanted to do?” 

Jason hums, chews that thought over for a long while. “I think I want to take you to New York.” 

“I'm not sure you're cleared to fly,” Tim starts hesitantly, and Jason shakes his head. His smile doesn't dim. 

“I was thinking we could take a road trip. Should be about five hours straight up, but we can detour through Pennsylvania on the way. I'll show you where I used to live, all the best places to visit. We can drag it into a two-day trip.” 

He's swaying a little bit, as he sometimes does, so Tim pulls him into his shoulder gently to ground him. “That sounds like a plan. Where would we stay?” 

“I'll let you handle the accommodation in Pennsylvania, but I thought we could stay with my parents in New York.” 

Tim freezes, blinks over at him. “You'd introduce me to your parents?” 

“Is that a no?” 

“It's a big deal.” 

Jason shrugs. “Maybe. Between that bombshell and telling them that their son has brain damage, we might be able to give my old man the stroke that finally puts him into retirement.” 

Tim frowns and pokes him in the ribs. Jason hisses and cants away, but he's chuckling. “This isn't intended as a shit question: but you sure you're feeling up to this?” 

“Absolutely,” Jason responds easily. “I've been waiting for my old man to kick it for thirty-one years.” 

“You know what I'm asking.” 

Jason fixes him with a solemn stare, smiling gently. “Yes, I'm feeling up to it. I want you to meet them, meet all my family. It's important to me.” 

Tim smiles to himself, and feels his face scrunch in the next moment. “God, you have like, thirteen cousins, don't you?” 

“Seven.” 

“So I have to remember all their names?” 

“You already know Steph's name. You can learn a few more.” 

“Pick three.” 

“Don't be an asshole.” 

“Okay, but you do have favourites, right?” Tim prods, and Jason gives him a side-eyed glare but doesn't deny it. “Ha! Knew it. Which ones?” 

“No, you're not getting off that easily.” 

“You only had to memorise four of my siblings!” Tim protests petulantly. “Seven is a small village.” 

“My aunts were really fond of J-names too,” Jason muses aloud while Tim groans. “Four of us have names starting with J.” 

“If I agree to memorise your cousins’ names,” Tim bargains, “do you promise to let me analyse their astrological compatibility?” 

Jason snorts. “I will pay you real, genuine money to try to drag Artemis into a discussion on how astrologically compatible she is with any of our cousins.” 

“When was she born?” 

“On the cusp of get fucked with meddling shithead rising.” 

“Ah, so she's an Aries,” Tim says loftily, and Jason elbows him in the ribs. 

“Aquarius,” he corrects, and Tim's eyebrows jump. 

“Aquarius? Interesting.” 

“Don't pretend like that's enlightening.” 

“I know that she's one of your favourite siblings,” Tim points out, and the thin-lipped disapproval Jason levels at the grove of trees across the road tells Tim he's not wrong. He feels a smile tugging onto his lips. “You got any Cancer cousins?” 

“When’s Cancer again?” 

“June 21st to July 22nd.” 

“No,” Jason answers. “But my old partner with the NYPD was a Cancer. You should probably meet him when we go up.” 

“I'm learning more and more about you everyday.” 

“You're _extrapolating_ more about me every day.” 

“I'll bet you your entire John Grisham collection that your least favourite sibling is a Taurus.” 

“Shut up.” Tim laughs, and even Jason manages to chuckle. He sobers after a moment, fading into a smile. “I hope you like them. My whole family, I mean. Or can at least tolerate them. I'd like them to see a lot more of you.” 

Tim wraps a hand around his waist as Steph's black SUV rolls up the drive towards them. Presses a soft kiss to Jason's temple. 

She pulls the vehicle up against the curb and throws it in park. Tim slides up, waiting for Jason to get his legs under him. He keels left for the barest fraction of a second, frowning as he tries to calibrate, and Tim holds his waist firmly until he’s upright under his own power again. Jason doesn’t thank him - they’re long past that now - and Tim layers his right hand over Jason’s, weaving their fingers together. Brings them up to his lips and bites a tiny peck of a kiss. 

“If you want me to meet your family, then I’m all for it.” 

Jason looks relieved when he glances up at Tim, and the latter clears his throat, busies himself with pointing out Jason’s duffel as Steph alights from the idling SUV. She scoops it up from the bench, hoisting it somewhere into the back. “What’s got you two looking all lovey-dovey?” she asks with a sly grin. 

“Thinking I might introduce Tim to Dad,” Jason says. 

Steph catches Tim’s gaze and mouths ‘Wow’. Jason scowls. 

“Deaf, not blind,” he reminds them, and squeezes Tim’s hand in reprimand. 

Steph chuckles, turns back to face Jason so he can see her lips. “Are you going to give him a gun?” 

“A gun?” Tim repeats with a strike of alarm. “Why would I need a gun?” 

“Nah,” Jason replies, ignoring him as he smirks. “If Dad tries any shit, I’ll just fake a seizure.” 

“You’re never gonna get your licence back if you do that,” Steph warns him, and Jason laughs. 

“Why would I need a licence when I’ve got two handsome chauffeurs to drive me everywhere?” 

Tim glares and sucks a sharp, reprimanding kiss into the corner of Jason’s jawline. The man keens away with a chuckle, but tugs Tim after him. 

It takes some manoeuvring to get Jason into the backseat. Every time he bends a knee his brain tries to overcompensate for an equilibrium it doesn’t have and he slides into the door with a frustrated huff. 

Tim presses soothing kisses into his hairline and walks him through it until Jason is slumped across the leather seat and dragging Tim in after him. He looks pleased with himself, bracketed by Tim pressed against the back of the passenger seat. “Hey, patron.” 

“There’s a law against this,” Steph calls as she climbs studiously into the driver’s seat. Tim grins and tugs the door closed before sliding past to take his seat. He’s barely wrestled his seatbelt on and Jason’s hand is already massaging his thigh. 

Tim sighs and winds his fingers into Jason’s, halting his ministrations. “You’re adorable, you know that. But I want to make it all the way back home without popping a stiff one, if you don’t mind.” 

“I didn’t hear that,” Steph growls, and swings them out of the drive onto the road. 

They’ve had varying degrees of success in that department. The first time Jason had felt put together enough to get on top, Tim had had to weather an embarrassing conversation from a stern nurse. They’d been a hair's width off orgasm when the nausea had caught up with Jason. He’d narrowly missed Tim with the upchuck that had followed, and then he’d tried skydiving from three feet off the hospital bed. They’d had to give the nurse a very unconvincing cover story when she’d come to see what all the ruckus was about, and they hadn’t been game enough to upgrade from more than handys and head since then. 

So Tim can understand why Jason might be a little stir-crazy. He looks downright ecstatic glancing out the window as they make their way down Seminary. Tim smiles to himself and squeezes his hand. 

After a few turns, Jason pauses, stiffening slightly before he asks at large, “Are we going back to the apartment?” 

Tim stiffens too, a lace of discontent weaving up his spine. Steph meets his probing glance out of the corner of her eye, but turns back to the steering wheel, silent. “The plan was to go to Dick's,” Tim says without any particular inflection, testing how well Jason takes that. 

Jason notices the hesitation. “Are we going back at all?” 

Tim chews his lip. He'd thought about it. They'd discussed it too, at great length, amongst themselves. Weighed the pros and cons with significant input from Barbara's masters psychiatry degree. It'd hinged entirely on whether they thought Jason could handle being back in what was essentially a trauma environment and whether said environment was guaranteed to trigger any latent PTSD. 

“Really, it comes down to what you want to do,” Tim answers on a sigh. 

Jason chews that over silently. “Is there a particular reason why we're having this discussion?” 

“We didn't know if you'd want to go back there,” Steph says, so Tim doesn't have to. He feels a swell of gratitude. “Since all that shit went down.” 

Jason hums thoughtfully. “That's a fair point. Counterpoint: it's my home.” 

Tim laughs softly, and Jason casts him a raised, curious brow. “Told you he'd say that,” Tim says to Steph while facing him, because he's on Jason's bad side and he knows Jason finds it easier to distinguish words when he can lip read. 

“So?” Jason prompts, glancing at Steph. 

She half-turns, keeping her eyes on the road. “So you're coming back to Dick’s for lunch anyway, and it's up to you to decide where you want to go from there. I'm happy to run you over there if that's where you want to go. Otherwise he’s got a bed made up for you both.” 

“We could get another apartment,” Tim compromises at Jason’s decidedly displeased expression. 

Jason snorts. “Like you have the money to just drop on a new apartment.” Tim doesn't say anything to that, and Jason looks indignant. “Christ, how much are you charging taxpayers to prop up your consultancy?” 

Tim kisses his knuckle, smiling. “As much as the FBI is willing to pay for my services,” he answers coolly. 

“Fucking hell,” Jason mutters, shaking his head. “Well, that's an option, I guess.” He thinks on it for a minute, and then says, “Oh.” 

“What?” 

“Could we get a place in New York?” 

Tim looks at him sternly. “I don't make that much.” 

Jason waves him off. “Not permanently. Just like, a summer home. A little place just out of the city where we can stay when we go upstate.” 

“Yeah, I guess we could do that. Maybe not immediately, but we can work towards it. I can call in on a few investments. We’ll make it work.” 

“Don’t worry,” Jason chirps. “I’ve got a great salary.” 

Tim arches a brow, amused. “You do, do you?” 

“Six figures,” Jason said with a confident nod. “My boss is super generous.” 

Tim shakes his head, smirking. “You’re incorrigible.” 

“That’s a big word.” 

“Shut up.” 

“Nah, you’d get bored, patron.” 

“I take it you’re still keen to take up my job offer then?” 

“Told you, I want to see my contract first,” Jason reminds him, tucking his arms against his chest. “But yes, if the offer’s still on the table, I’ll buy the table. Besides, I presume I’m gonna be housebound for a while on doctor’s orders. I’ll bet filing isn’t considered ‘too strenuous’.” 

“I just realised,” Tim says, “you’re going to be insufferable after exactly two days internment. God, you’re going to trash my house again, aren’t you?” 

“I’m not promising anything.” 

“Asshole.” 

Jason grins. “It’ll keep me busy; I would’ve thought you’d like that?” 

Tim just squeezes his hand tightly, smirking at Jason’s smug chuckle, and fixes his eyes on the windscreen for the rest of the drive. It’s not all that long before Steph’s pulling them up the drive and into the garage of Dick’s three-storey townhouse. 

“You've got the whole downstairs to yourself,” Steph announces, and kills the engine. 

Tim presses a kiss to his jawline, and Jason grins. “You head in, I'm just going to move our bags. I'll meet you inside.” 

“Aye aye, patron,” he acquiesces as he slips out of the SUV and hits the ground with a dull rattle. He steadies himself against the door, but seems otherwise unperturbed as Steph leads him around to the front door. 

Tim hides his smile and reaches for his duffel. 

Dick’s wrung together a makeshift bedroom in record time. With Tim’s resources, it wasn’t exactly hard, but he’s developed a fondness for the queen bed over the past four weeks he’s spent here. The Bureau cleaned out his apartment two weeks after the incident, but Tim hasn’t felt comfortable going back since then. He spent all of three hours tossing and turning in the early morning silence before he’d skipped over to Barbara’s and crashed on her couch. 

He’s rotated through her and Cass over the past three months, spending ample amounts of timing wearing out his welcome. He likes spending time with both his sisters - and with Steph too - but Dick's household is by far his favourite. Just for the food alone. 

And he'd promised them a feast for lunch. So Tim hoists the duffel onto the bed with the promise that he'll unpack it later once Jason's more settled, and heads back through the adjoining garage to the front. 

He finds Jason standing petulantly in the foyer, glaring up at the flight of stairs. Tim winces and slides an arm around his waist. “Everything ok?” 

Jason doesn't answer, but Tim can see where his reluctance is coming from. It's two half-flights of stairs, technically, with a wall-pressed banister and about thirty steps in all. There's a moderate to fair chance that Jason is going to tumble back down them all if he tries to head up. 

Inclines have been somewhat of a sore point for Jason since the incident. Even walking occasionally knocks out his balance, so ascending a flight of stairs is nothing short of an ordeal. The neurologist and the physical therapist had both explained that having your crushed inner ear surgically extracted out of your ear canal tends to impair your internal equilibrium a fair amount. Only having half the sensors in functional condition is enough to throw out most mechanisms. It's the human equivalent to losing one wing on a plane; everything else is functioning perfectly, but you're still going portside whether you like it or not. 

And Tim knows Jason _can_ climb this flight of stairs, but he just won't particularly enjoy the experience. It'll take a lot out of him, both physically and emotionally, to achieve such a basic feat. Tim's not really complacent enough to look the other way while he attempts it. 

“Hey, ,” he purrs into the space behind Jason's right ear and squeezes his waist a little tighter. Jason shivers slightly with the vibration. “Indulge a shitty dom's shitty d-tendencies?” 

Jason glares, because he has to save face, but Tim can read the relief and gratitude clear as day. He grins and lifts his arm higher up Jason's back, stooping to slide an arm beneath his knees as he knocks his legs out from under him. 

Jason folds with a yelp, grappling for Tim's shoulders as he scoops him up and presses the other man to his chest. Then he pauses to grin down at Jason's flushed expression. 

“There we go,” he purrs, and adjusts to get a firmer grip before taking the first step. Jason presses his forehead into the pane of Tim's shoulder halfway up, because vertigo's a bitch no matter what degree you're reclined at. Tim takes it slow and steady, and waits for Jason to get his bearings when he sets him on his feet on the landing. 

“You know, it’s a great evolutionary flaw that I should get headaches without actually even exerting myself,” Jason mutters, and blinks at the timber floorboards. 

“You’re missing some of your very important inner ear tubing,” Tim explains with a small smile. “Your brain’s VOR is trying to compensate, so you’re getting vertigo.” 

“Thanks, Doc,” he replies irritably, and Tim chuckles and winds his fingers into Jason’s. Doesn’t miss when Jason latches onto them like a lifeline. 

“Are you hungry? Smells like Dick’s making pyrih.” 

“God, I've missed good food.” 

 

* * *

 

Jason shoulders their duffel and takes the handful of steps at full speed, the sound wringing out across the bare lawn and echoing off the bay beyond. There's barely even a hitch to his step, but he leans back against the wall by the door anyway as he waits for Tim to unlock their little house and for his equilibrium to recalibrate. 

Behind them, the sun glints old and red against the water, throwing the colours out in a last ditch effort as it slides down over the horizon behind them, blotched by a row of trees. It's a tired, contented sight, but the sun's wringing the last few bursts of autumn out that it can before the evening sets in. It's not the only one. 

Jason's grinning as Tim pulls back the screen and hones in on the deadbolt. “You look like a goddamn sun,” Jason says appreciatively, looking him once over. “You're glowing. What's got you in such a good mood? Did they finally invent an alternative to coffee that's not as bitter as the day is long?” 

Tim lets him babble, rolling with the lighthearted jabs as Jason dashes into the singular living room and stretches like they haven't been here in years. He's bouncing, springy on his feet and charged with latent excitement from the long drive as he heads straight for the only bedroom to ditch the duffel. 

“It's my anniversary,” Tim calls back through the house, dumping the groceries on the kitchen counter, and hears Jason snort in response. Through the doorway to their room, he sees him slump back against the bed covers with a sigh of contentment. 

Tim picks his way around the corner, leaning a shoulder against the doorframe as he crosses his arms. Jason grins up at him from his careless sprawl. 

“So patron, a whole weekend to ourselves,” Jason purrs, shucking his hands behind his head. He wiggles his hips, settling into a more comfortable position on the low bed. “What's the plan?” 

Tim lifts one artfully blasé shoulder. “Oh, you know, thought we'd do as the Romans do. We could go out on the Peconics tomorrow, catch some flounder. We could visit the Big Duck?” 

Jason rolls his eyes, but it's amused. “Two whole days and an anniversary on his mind and he wants to visit giant waterfowl.” 

Tim smirks. “Did you have something better in mind, ?” 

“I might have.” 

Tim lifts his chin, straightening off the wall as he approaches. He pitches his tone low, consciously wording it like a command when he says, “I'm going to need you to tell me exactly what you have in mind, .” 

Jason's gaze widens, the pools of his eyes darkening. His reply is still lilting and cocky when he answers, “Thought I might try my hand at convincing you to fuck me senseless, mon fou.” 

Tim hums, smiling as he stands over him on the bed, slotted between his crooked knees. “You did, did you? You're going to need to ask nicely for that.” 

Jason swallows, his stare deepening with purpose. “Please, patron.” 

Tim leans over him, splaying his hands on either of Jason's thighs. He doesn't miss his sharp intake of breath. “I'm going to make you come four times for me tonight, ; one for each year we've been together.” 

Jason moans, fingers curling in the front of Tim's shirt as he drags him up the bed. He bites a sharp line up Tim's throat, demanding, “Is that a promise?” 

So Tim hitches his knees up against the heat of Jason's ribs and slides pliantly down into his kiss. He's hot already, even though it’s September, and Tim stubbornly chalks it up to the closed up house. He pulls back enough to suck a kiss into Jason's clavicle where it peeks out beneath his shirt, and slips a hand into his hair to keep him down. Jason leans back, his head resting on Tim's knuckles fisted tightly, possessively, around his locks, and bares his throat. 

“You didn't answer me,” Jason says, but it's soft and hitches on a moan when Tim shucks his shirt up with his free hand, shimmying hips down his torso as far as he can comfortably go without letting go of Jason's hair. He makes it to the dip of his hip bones and reaches back to slip a hand into his sweats. Jason chokes off a moan and jolts at his cold touch, and Tim preens at the sight, at how tightly wound he is already, at just the thought of him. 

He gives Jason a slow, rough stroke, and watches the knob of his neck hitch when he swallows hard. Tim smiles. “I thought I _was_ answering you, .” 

Jason shudders, his lips parting as if he wants to say something witty to that, but his concentration isn't all there. He hucks up into Tim's grip, and the latter shifts his weight until he can pin Jason down again. Not enough to be imposing, just enough to be present. A promise, of sorts. 

“You know, four years and I don't think I've ever had the pleasure of watching you come untouched,” Tim muses in a low, contemplative tone, and slips his thumb over Jason's head just to make it difficult for him to cling to the conversation. 

Jason's determination has always been something for Tim to behold. “That's because you can't keep your hands off me,” he returns, too breathless to be coy, and pulls gently against the grip Tim has on his hair. Not enough to slip free, just a point to be made. Tim tightens his grip regardless. 

He's right though. Tim's greedy when it comes to Jason, and four years has spoilt him rotten. He's always chasing that look on Jason's features, the blissed out one that he bathes in after Tim's wrung him hoarse. The one that paints Jason's face in stark, stunned disbelief; as if he can't imagine finding himself so _lucky_ to have Tim. As if it's _him_ that's been so fortunate, and not the other way around. It's a heady, dangerous thing, and Tim gorges himself on it. 

“I'll have to put that mouth to better use if you're going to sass me like that,” Tim warns, and Jason practically melts at the suggestion. 

“ _Please_ , patron,” he says, and Tim's his, always his, to do with as he damn well pleases, whenever he damn well pleases. 

He slides forward until he's braced over Jason's shoulders, and doesn't miss when Jason's hands jump up to splay on his crooked thighs. 

Jason's gotten stupidly good at blowjobs from this angle, mostly because he doesn't get vertigo as bad when he's pinned down on his back, and Tim's stupidly impressed with it every time. And honestly, Jason likes the opportunity to show off. 

So Tim lets himself be the first sacrifice, lets Jason christen their evening with Tim's hands clenched tight on the bedsheet and in his hair as he shouts through his orgasm and comes apart in no time at all. 

Then he shimmies down Jason with a vengeance, and returns the favour on his knees at the end of the bed with Jason's hitched over his shoulders. And when Jason's hot in his veins and still eager for more, he folds him back and wraps his fingers firmly around Jason's wrists, pins them to the bedsheets at his sides. Then he mouths Jason open until he's stopped trying to thrash and his thighs are just shaking where they form a stranglehold on Tim's shoulders and the back of his neck. And the scream that wrings from him when Tim makes him come without even reaching for his cock is loud enough to rattle the windows and uproot any diurnals lingering for the last few weeks before winter sets in. 

Fucking him after that is merely an encore, but Jason keens for it like he's a drowning man in search of a preserver. Tim folds over his back and bites a string of kisses down the length of his spine while Jason shudders on his knees and wraps his fists tight in the bedsheets. 

It's only after they've taken a solid recuperative break for both their healths that Tim makes good on his promise and takes Jason's last orgasm as he sinks down on Jason's cock and kisses him slow and deep. 

Jason falls asleep first, curled into Tim's side while he trails fingertips across his scalp and mouths gentle, soft kisses across his shoulders. Tim smiles into the darkness, exhausted and glowing and brimming with ecstasy as he gazes down at the man beside him. 

There's a million things he's done with him over the past four years that Tim never thought he'd get to do, and a million things more on his list. And Tim's mind wanders to the little velvet box he's got stashed in the bedside drawer, behind a stack of socks Jason won't think to rummage through, and he grins and tries to imagine what Jason's expression is going to be like when he thumbs it open. Wonders if he'll do it on one knee or if he'll be casual about it, or if he'll do it tomorrow morning or after lunch or of an evening when they're curled up around the wood burner. Wonders if he'll plan it out and do it while they're taking a romantic stroll or if he'll be coy about it and spring it on him at an impromptu moment. It's equally exciting and terrifying, and Tim is six ways to ecstatic that he has no fucking clue how or when he's going to do it because it thrills him, and he's got forever to make his mind up about how he'll pop the question and it'll probably be entirely spontaneous because he's an honest-to-God sucker for blind romanticism. 

And he's not even going to pretend Jason's not going to say yes, even though he can feel a single, stray coil of doubt laced around his chest. Because he could say no, and that's entirely a possibility. But Tim's thought of that, properly and wholly, and he wouldn't mind, actually. He honestly wouldn't. Because it wouldn't change anything. Wouldn't change how he feels about Jason and how Jason feels about him, and it's really just a formality at this point. 

But it's an important formality, to him, so he went and picked out the ring and fretted over the decision and called Barbara nine times just to be _sure_. And he tucked the little innocuous box into his sock drawer for easy access at the perfect moment. For when Tim's gut tells him it's _right_. 

Tim runs the flat of his thumb over Jason's temple, brushing back a smattering of stray hairs, and the man shuffles a little, moaning absently as he slots himself better against Tim. And Tim smiles into the darkness, and knows that this is so good, and they have better to come yet. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translation notes:**
> 
> Mon soumis = my sub 
> 
> Cocotte = darling


End file.
